"Oh, I must go," he muttered; "I must be up and away! Morgan-Morgan is waiting for me! 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- 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 high ways 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 tellBut I stole down to that gully, and brought up Kentucky Belle. I kissed the star on her forehead-my pretty gentle lass- I guided him to the southward as well as I knew how; 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 hanging 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; The lad had got across the border, riding Kentucky Belle; 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; some one place where-as we may fancy-the veil is thin which hides the di vinity behind it.-CONFUCIAN CLASSICE. The king from his council chamber Came weary and sore of heart; "I am sickened of faces ignoble, I shall shrink to their shrunken measure, "Paint me a true man's picture, Endowed with the strength of heroes, So the artist painted the picture, Had garnished the stately wall. Till it suddenly wore strange meaning, For the form was his supplest courtier's, But the bearing was that of the henchman The brow was a priest's who pondered The lips, half sad and half mirthful, He had kissed in the market place; Then "Learn, O King," said the artist, SHE WANTED AN EPITAPH. 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: IN MEMORY HOMER CLINK, October 13, 1873, Aged 41 years, 7 months, 21 days. My husband was a noble man, Of me he lots did think; And I'll never see 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?" 66 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 have laid him; He was always home nights, Never got into fights, But death came along and betrayed him. I shall meet him on the other shore where all is 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 any one else-its the real poetry, but I'd like suthin' kinder different, somehow. He was a noble man. He never gave me 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 soine 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: IN MEMORY HOMER CLINK, who died October 13, 1873, Aged 41 years, 7 months, 21 days. He was the kindest sort 'o man, He was a good provider; And when a friend asked him to drink His wife she had a noble heart, "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 Walk at the dewy dawn abroad, And hold sweet fellowship with God. |