And he's huffy, and stuffy, and puffy, and snuffy, And grumbling, and fumbling, and mumbling, and stumbling; Withering, and dithering, and quivering, and shivering And a very big bill, All of which is worth nil, But who gives him offense, as well as a pill, The grave die is cast, Never was fretful antiquity mended- Now, gentlemen! mark me, for this is the life WE SHALL KNOW.-ANNIE HERBERT. When the mists have rolled in splendor And the sunshine, warm and tender, We may read Love's shining letter We shall know each other better When the mists have cleared away,- In the dawning of the morning, If we err in human blindness In the dawning of the morning, When the silvery mist has veiled us We shall know as we are known, When the mists have risen above us, We shall know as we are known, When the Day of Light is dawning, GUILTY OR NOT GUILTY. She stood at the bar of justice, For a look so worn and pathetic Must have left that silent trace. "Your name," said the judge, as he eyed her With kindly look yet keen, "Is Mary McGuire, if you p ease sir," "And your age?"-"I am turned fifteen." "Well, Mary," and then from a paper He slowly and gravely read, "You are charged here-I'm sorry to say itWith stealing three loaves of bread. "You look not like an offender, But she dried her eyes in a moment, "I will tell you just how it was, sir, By working hard all day, But somehow times were bad, sir, "I could get no more employment; So, what was I to do, sir? I am guilty, but do not condemn, I took-oh, was it stealing? The bread to give to them." Every man in the court-room— Knew, as he looked upon her, That the prisoner spake the truth, Out from their pockets came kerchiefs, Out from their eyes sprung tears, And out from old faded wallets Treasures hoarded for years. BBB The judge's face was a study The strangest you ever saw, As he cleared his throat and murmured For one so learned in such matters, But no one blamed him or wondered, And no one blamed him or wondered ODE FOR DECORATION DAY. HENRY PETERSON. Bring flowers to strew again With fragrant purple rain Of lilacs, and of roses white and red, The dwellings of our dead, our glorious dead! And wild war-music bring anew the time When they who sleep beneath And in their lusty manhood sallied forth, Holding in strong right hand The fortunes of the land, The pride and power and safety of the North! It seems but yesterday The long and proud array But yesterday when ev'n the solid rock Shook as with earthquake shock,— As North and South, like two huge icebergs, ground Against each other with convulsive bound, And the whole world stood still To view the mighty war, And hear the thunderous roar, While sheeted lightnings wrapped each plain and hill. Alas! how few came back From battle and from wrack! Alas! how many lie Beneath a Southern sky, Who never heard the fearful fight was done, And all they fought for won. Sweeter, I think their sleep, More peaceful and more deep, Could they but know their wounds were not in vain, And see their homes unmarred by hostile tread. We mourn for all, but each doth think of one Who came not back, or coming, sank and died,— "He fell 'fore Richmond, in the seven long days When battle raged from morn till blood-dewed eve, And lies there," one pale, widowed mourner says, And knows not most to triumph or to grieve. "My boy fell at Fair Oaks," another sighs; "And mine at Gettysburg!" his neighbor cries, And that great name each sad-eyed listener thrills. I think of one who vanished when the press Of battle surged along the Wilderness, And mourned the North upon her thousand hills. Oh! gallant brothers of the generous South, In your unnumbered vales, where God thought best! And ye! O Northmen ! be ye not outdone We all do need forgiveness, every one; And they that give shall find it in their need. |