Our Father! our Father! why don't you proceed?
Can't you see I am dying? Great God, how I bleed!
Ebbing away! Ebbing away!

The light of the day is turning to gray.
Pray! Pray!

Our Father in heaven-boys, tell me the rest,
While I stanch the hot blood from this hole in my breast.
There's something about the forgiveness of sin;
Put that in! put that in !-and then

I'll follow your words and say an amen.

Here, Morris, old fellow, get hold of my hand,
And, Wilson, my comrade-oh! wasn't it grand

When they came down the hill like a thunder-charged cloud,
And were scattered like mist by our brave little crowd?
Where's Wilson, my comrade-here, stoop down your head,
Can't you say a short prayer for the dying and dead?

"Christ-God, who died for sinners all,

Hear thou this suppliant wanderer's cry;
Let not e'en this poor sparrow fall
Unheeded by thy gracious eye;

Throw wide thy gates to let him in,

And take him pleading to thine arms
Forgive, O Lord, his life-long sin,

And quiet all his fierce alarms."

God bless you, my comrade, for singing that hymn,
It is light to my path,-now my sight has grown dim-
I am dying-bend down-till I touch you once more;
Don't forget me, old fellow-God prosper this war!
Confusion to enemies!-keep hold of my hand-
And float our dear flag o'er a prosperous land!

THE STRANGE LAND.-ROBERT C. V. MEYERS.*
"Where have you been, my little daughter,
Where have you been this day?"

"I have been in a place that knows no time,
Where the hours keep away."

*Author of "Jamie," "Gabe's Christmas Eve," "If I should Die To-night," and other popular recitations in succeeding Numbers of this Series. Mr. Myers. has also contributed many excellent Plays, for the Dramatic Supplements.

"That is a strange thing to say, little daughterAnd what saw you in that place?”

"Oh, I saw the song warm into living,

Like the color into a face."

"And what heard you there, my little daughter,
In that place that you have found?"
"Oh, I heard the perfume sing in a rose,
As it bloomed up out of the ground."

"And who was with you there, little daughter,
In that strange place you trod?"

"Oh, all sweet thoughts, and prayers, and joys That come to us down from God."

"And what is the name of that place, little daughter. Where such strange things you prove?"

"The birds and the flowers and the angeis, mother, Called it the Land of Love."

CHAR-CO-O-AL.

The chimney soot was falling fast,
As through the streets and alleys passed
A man who sang, with noise and din,
This word with singular meanin',

Char-co-o-al!

His face was grim, his nose upturned,
As if the very ground he spurned;
And like a trumpet sound was heard
The accents of that awful word,

In muddy streets he did descry

Char-co-o-al!

The "moire antiques" held high and dry,
With feet and ankles shown too well,

And from his lips escaped a yell

Char-co-o-al!

"Don't go there!" was the warning sound;
"The pipes have all burst underground,
The raging torrent's deep and wide;"
But loud his trumpet voice replied,

Char-co-o-al!

"Oh, stop!" good Biddy cried, "and lave
A brimful peck upon this pave."
A smile his inky face came o'er,
And on he went with louder roar,

Char-co-o-al!

"Beware of Main street crossing deep,
Away from Walnut gutter keep!"
This was the sweeper's only greet,
A voice replied far up the street,

Char-co-o-al!

At set of sun, as homeward went
The joyous men of cent per cent,
Counting the dollars in their till,
A voice was heard, both loud and shrill,
Char-co-o-al!

A man, upon the watchman's round,
Half-steeped in mud and ice was found,
Shouting with voice, though not so strong,
That awful word which heads my song,
Char-co-o-al!

There in the gaslight, dim and gray,
Dreaming unconsciously he lay,
And from his nose, turned up still more,
Came sounding like a thrilling snore-
Char-co-o-al!

CROSSING THE CARRY.--REV. W. H. H. MURRAY. SCENE.The Adirondacks during a shower. A pleasure-seeker and his guide on the road.

"John," said I, as we stood looking at each other across the boat, "this rain is wet."

"It generally is, up in this region, I believe," he responded, as he wiped the water out of his eyes with the back of his hand, and shook the accumulating drops from nose and chin; "but the waterproof I have on has lasted me some thirty-eight years, and I don't think it will wet through to-day."

"Well!" I exclaimed, "there is no use of standing here in this marsh-grass any longer; help me to load up. I'll take the baggage, and you the boat."

"You'll never get through with it, if you try to take it all at once. Better load light, and I'll come back after what's left," was the answer. "I tell you," he continued, "the swamp is full of water, and soft as muck."

"John," said I, "that baggage is going over at one load, sink or swim, live or die, survive or perish. I'll make the attempt, swamp or no swamp. My life is assured against accidents by fire, water, and mud; so here goes. What's life to glory!" I exclaimed, as I seized the porkbag, and dragged it from under the boat; "stand by and see me put my armor on."

Over my back I slung the provision basket, made like a fisherman's creel, thirty inches by forty, filled with plates, coffee, salt, and all the impedimenta of camp and cooking utensils. This was held in its place by straps passing over the shoulders and under the arms, like a Jew-pedler's pack. There might have been eighty pounds' weight in it. Upon the top of the basket, John lashed my knapsack, full of bullets, powder, and clothing. My rubber suit and heavy blanket, slung around my neck by a leather thong, hung down in front across my chest. On one shoulder the oars and paddles were balanced, with a frying pan and gridiron'swinging from the blades; on the other was my rifle, from which were suspended a pair of boots, my creel, a coffee-pot, and a bag of flour.

Taking up the bag of pork in one hand, and seizing the stock of the rifle with the other, from two fingers of which hung a tin kettle of prepared trout, which we were loath to throw away, I started. Picture a man so loaded, forcing his way through a hemlock swamp, through whose floor of thin moss he sank to his knees; or picking his way across oozy sloughs on old roots, often covered with mud and water, and slippery beyond description, and you have me daguerreotyped in your mind. Well, as I said, I started.

For some dozen rods I got on famously, and was congratulating myself with the thought of an easy transit when a root upon which I had put my right foot gave

way, and, plunging headlong into the mud, I struck an attitude of petition; while the frying-pan and gridiron, flung off the oars and forward by the movement, alighted upon my prostrated head. An ejaculation, not exactly religious, escaped me, and with a few desperate flounces I assumed once more the perpendicular. Fishing the frying pan from the mud, and lashing the gridiron to my belt, I made another start. It was hard work.

The most unnatural adjustment of weight upon my back made it difficult to ascertain just how far behind me lay the centre of equilibrium. I found where it did not lie several times. Before I had gone fifty rods the camp-basket weighed one hundred and twenty pounds. The pork-bag felt as if it had several shoats in it, and the oar-blades stuck out in the exact form of an X. If I went one side of a tree, the oars would go the other side. If I backed up, they would manage to get entangled amid the brush. If I stumbled and fell, the confounded things would come like a goose-poke athwart my neck, pinning me down.

As I proceeded, the mud grew deeper, the roots farther apart, and the blazed trees less frequent. Never before did I so truly realize the aspiration of the old hymn,

"Oh, had I the wings of a dove !"

At last I reached what seemed impossible to pass,an oozy slough, crossed here and there by cedar roots, smooth and slippery, lay before me. From a high stump which I had climbed upon I gave a desperate leap. I struck where I expected, and a little farther. The weight of the basket, which was now something over two hundred pounds, was too much for me to check at once. It pressed me forward. I recovered myself, and the abominable oars carried me as far the other way. The moccasins of wet leather began to slip along the roots. They began to slip very often, and at bad times. I found it necessary to change my position suddenly. I changed it. It wasn't a perfect success. I tried again. It seemed necessary to keep on trying.