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'• Oh, I /lust go," he muttered; "I must be up and away! Morgan—Morgan is waiting forme! Oh, what will Morgan say?"

But I heard a sound of tramping and kept him back from the door—

The ringing sound of horses' hoofs that I had heard before.

And on, on, came the soldiers—the Michigan cavalry— And fast they rode, and black they looked,galloping rapidly,— They had followed hard on Morgan's track; they had followed day and night; But of Morgan and Morgan's raiders they had never caught a sight.

And rich Ohio sat startled through all those summer days; For strange, wild men were galloping over her broad highways—

Now here, now there, now seen, now gone, now north, now east, now west,

Through river-valleys and corn-land farms, sweeping away her best.

A bold ride and a long ride! But they were taken at last. They almost reached the river by galloping hard and fast; But the boys in blue were upon them ere ever they gained the ford,

And Morgan, Morgan the raider, laid down his terrible sword.

Well, I kept the boy till evening—kept him against his

will— But he was too weak to follow, and sat there pale and still. When it was cool and dusky—you'll wonder to hear me tell— But I stole down to that "gully, and brought up Kentucky


I kissed the star on her forehead—my pretty gentle lass—
But I knew that she'd be happy back" in the old Blue-Grass.
A suit of clothes of Conrad's, with all the money 1 had,
And Kentuck, pretty Kentuck, I gave to the worn-out lad.

I guided him to the southward as well as I knew how;
The boy rode off with many thanks, and many a backward

And then the glow it faded, and my heart began to swell, As down the glen away she went, my lost Kentucky Belle!

When Conrad came in the evening, the moon was shining high;

Baby and I were both crying—I couldn't tell him why— But a battered suit of rebel gray was banging on the wall, And a thin old horse, with drooping head, stood in Kentucky's stall.


Well, he was kind, and never once said a hard word to me;
He knew I couldn't help it—'twas all for the Tennessee.
But, after the war was over, just think what came to pass--
A letter, sir; and the two were safe back in the old Blue-

The lad had got across the border, riding Kentucky Belle; And Kentuck she was thriving, and fat, and hearty, and well; He cared for her, and kept her, nor touched her with whip or spur.

Ah! we've had many horses since, but never a horse like her!

THE KING'S PICTURE.—Helen B. Bostwick.

There is in every human being, however ignoble, some hint of perfection; ■ome ono place where—as wo may fancy—tho veil is thin which bides the divinity behind it.—Confucian Cia&siCE.

The king from his council chamber

Came weary and sore of heart;
He called for IlifF the painter,

And spake to him thus apart:
"I am sickened of faces ignoble,

Hypocrites, cowards, and knaves!
I shall shrink to their shrunken measure,

Chief slave in a realm of slaves!

"Paint me a true man's picture,

Gracious and wise and good;
Endowed with the strength of heroes,

And the beauty of womanhood;
It shall hang in my inmost chamber,

That thither when I retire,
It may fill my soul with grandeur

And warm it with sacred fire."

So the artist painted the picture,
And hung it in the palace hall;

Had garnished the stately wall.
The king, with head uncovered,
Gazed on it with rapt delight,
Till it suddenly wore strange meaning,
And baffled his questioning sight.

For the form was his supplest courtier's,

Perfect in every limb!
But the bearing was that of the henchman

Who filled the flagons for him;


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The brow was a priest's who pondered

His parchments early and late;
The eye was a wandering minstrel's
Who sang at the palace gate.

The lips, half sad and half mirthful,

With a flitting, tremulous grace,
Were the very lips of a woman

He had kissed in the market place;
But the smile which her curves transfigured,

As a rose with its shimmer of dew,
Was the smile of the wife who loved him,

Queen Ethelyn, good and true.

Then " Learn, O King," said the artist,

"This truth that the picture tells—
How, that in every form of the human,

Some hint of the highest dwells;
How, scanning each living temple

For the place where the veil is thin,
We may gather, by beautiful glimpses,

The form of the God within."


She came in from the country a few days ago and ordered a head-stone for the grave of her departed husband. The marble-cutter was to have it all ready yesterday, when she was to come in again with the inscription, have the letters carved on and take the stone away.

She was on time, but she wore an anxious, troubled look, having failed to write up such a notice as she thought the stone ought to bear.

"I want suthin' that'll do my poor dead Homer justiss," she explained to the marble-cutter. "I think I ought to have one or two verses of poetry, and then a line or two at the bottom—suthin' like 'Meet me on the other shore,' you know."

The cutter said he thought he could get up something,and she entered the office and he took out twenty-three sheets of foolscap and three pen-holders and set to work, while she held her breath for fear of disturbing his thoughts. He ground away for awhile, scratched out and wrote in, and finally said he'd got the neatest thing that ever went upon white marble. It read:




who died
October 13, 1873,
Aged 41 years, 7 months, 21 daya.

My husband was a noble man,

Of me he lots did think;
And I'll never seo another man

Like my dear Homer Clink.

"Isn't that bully? " asked the man as he finished reading the inscription.

"It's purty fair, but ," replied the widow.

"But what, madam?"

"Why, you see, he was good and kind, and was allus hum nights, and all that, but I may find another man just as good, you know. I have said that I wouldn't marry again, but I may change my mind, and I guess we'd better tinker up that verse a little. And besides, you didn't get anything on the bottom."

She went out and rambled among the tombstones, while the cutter ground away again, and just as she had become interested in a dog-fight he called her in and read the new inscription. The first part was as before, but his poetry read:

My husband is dead,
My poor Homer Clink,

And in the cold ground they haTe laid him;
He was always home nights,
Never got mto fighta.

But death came along and betrayed him.

I shall meet him on the otber shore whero all ia lovely,
and where sickness never comes.

"There, how's that?" inquired the poet, a bland smile covering his face. "Seems to me as if that went right to the heart."

The woman took the paper, read the notice over four or five times, and finally said:

"I don't want to seem partickler about this, and I know I'm makin' a good deal of trouble. That would do for'most pny one else—its the real poetry, but I'd like suthin' kinder different, somehow. He was a noble man. He never gave Kne a cross word in his life—not one. He'd be out of bed at daylight, start the fire, and I never got up till I heard him grinding the coffee. He was a good provider, he was. He never bought any damaged goods because he could get 'em cheap, and he never scrimped me on sugar and tea, as somo folks do. I can't help but weep when I think of him!"


She sobbed away for awhile, and then brightened up and said:

"Of course, I'll meet him in heaven. It's all right. As I told you, I may never marry again, though I can't tell what I'll be driven to. Just try once more."

She sat down to an old almanac, and the cutter resumed his pen. He seemed to get the right idea at once, and it wasn't fifteen minutes before he had the third notice ground out. It read:



who died
October 13, 1873,
Aged 41 years, 7 months, 21 days.
He was the kindest sort 'o man,

Ho was a good provider;
And when a friend asked him to drink
He always cailed for cider.

His wife she had a noble heart,

And though she may remarry;
Whene'ershe thinks of Homer Clink

Her heart a sigh will carry.

"That's good—that just hits me!" exclaimed the widow, tears coming to her eyes. "I've got to go and do some trading, I'll be back in two hours. Put the inscription on handsome-like, and I shan't mind two dollars extra.

About noon her one-horse wagon backed up to the dealer's, and as the stone was loaded up the widow's face wore a quiet smile of satisfaction.

MORN—Mrs. J. L. Gray.

Morn is the time to wake,

The eyelids to unclose,
Spring from the arms of sleep and break

The fetters of repose;
Walk at the dewy dawn abroad,
And hold sweet fellowship with God.

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