"For, Marty, all the soldiers love,

And all are loved again;

And I am loved, and love, perhaps,

No more than other men.

I cannot tell-I do not know

Which way my duty lies,

Or where the Lord would have me build
My fire of sacrifice.

"I feel-I know-I am not mean;
And though I seem to boast,
I'm sure that I would give my life
To those who need it most.
Perhaps the Spirit will reveal
That which is fair and right;
So, Marty, let us humbly kneel
And pray to Heaven for light.".

Peace in the clover-scented air,
And stars within the dome;
And, underneath, in dim repose,
A plain New England home.
Within, a widow in her weeds
From whom all joy is flown,

Who kneels among her sleeping babes,
And weeps and prays alone!

JOSIAH GILBERT HOLLAND.

CLARIBEL'S PRAYER.

THE day, with cold gray feet, clung shivering to the hills,

While o'er the valley still night's rain-fringed curtains fell;

But waking Blue-eyes smiled: ""Tis ever as God

wills;

He knoweth best, and be it rain or shine, 'tis well; Praise God!" cried always little Claribel.

Then sunk she on her knees; with eager, lifted hands

Her rosy lips made haste some dear request to

tell:

"O Father, smile, and save this fairest of all lands, And make her free, whatever hearts rebel; Amen! Praise God!" cried little Claribel.

“And, Father," still arose another pleading prayer, O save my brother, in the rain of shot and shell! Let not the death-bolt, with its horrid streaming hair,

Dash light from those sweet eyes I love so well; Amen! Praise God !" wept little Claribel.

"But, Father, grant that when the glorious fight is done,

And up the crimson sky the shouts of freemen

swell,

Grant that there be no nobler victor 'neath the sun
Than he whose golden hair I love so well;
Amen! Praise God!" cried little Claribel.

When the gray and dreary day shook hands with grayer night,

The heavy air was filled with clangor of a bell; Oh, shout!" the Herald cried, his worn eyes brimmed with light;

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'Tis victory! Oh, what glorious news to tell!" Praise God! He heard my prayer," cried Claribel.

"But pray you, soldier, was my brother in the fight And in the fiery rain? Oh, fought he brave and

well ?"

"Dear child," the Herald said, "there was no braver sight

Than his young form, so grand 'mid shot and shell;"

"Praise God!" cried trembling little Claribel.

"And rides he now with victor's plume of red, While trumpets' golden throats his coming steps foretell ?"

The Herald dropped a tear. "Dear child," he softly said,

"Thy brother evermore with conquerors shall dwell."

"Praise God! He heard my prayer," cried Claribel.

"With victors, wearing crowns and bearing palms," he said,

And snow of sudden fear upon the rose lips fell; 'Oh, sweetest Herald, say my brother lives!" she plead;

"Dear child, he walks with angels, who in strength excel;

Praise God, who gave this glory, Claribel."

The cold gray day died sobbing on the weary hills, While bitter mourning on the night winds rose and fell.

"O child," the Herald wept, "'tis as the dear Lord

wills;

He knoweth best, and be it life or death, 'tis well." "Amen! Praise God!" sobbed little Claribel.

M. L. PARMELEE.

"PICCIOLA."

It was a sergeant old and gray,

Well singed and bronzed from siege and pillage, Went tramping in an army's wake,

Along the turnpike of the village.

For days and nights the winding host

Had through the little place been marching,

And ever loud the rustics cheered,

Till every throat was hoarse and parching.

The squire and farmer, maid and dame,
All took the sight's electric stirring,
And hats were waved, and staves were sung,
And 'kerchiefs white were countless whirling.

They only saw a gallant show

Of heroes stalwart under banners,

And in the fierce heroic glow

'Twas theirs to yield but wild hosannahs.

The sergeant heard the shrill hurrahs,
Where he behind in step was keeping;
But glancing down beside the road
He saw a little maid sit weeping.

"And how is this ?" he gruffly said,

A moment pausing to regard her; "Why weepest thou, my little chit ?" And then she only cried the harder.

"And how is this, my little chit?"

The sturdy trooper straight repeated"When all the village cheers us on,

That you, in tears, apart are seated?

"We march two hundred thousand strong! And that's a sight, my baby beauty,

To quicken silence into song,

And glorify the soldier's duty."

"It's very, very grand, I know,"

The little maid gave soft replying; "And father, mother, brother, too, All say 'hurrah' while I am crying.

"But think-O Mr. Soldier, think How many little sisters' brothers Are going all away to fight,

Who may be killed, as well as others!"

"Why, bless thee, child," the sergeant said,
His brawny hand her curls caressing,
""Tis left for little ones like you

To find that war's not all a blessing."

And "bless thee!" once again he cried ;

Then cleared his throat and looked indignant,
And marched away with wrinkled brow
To stop the straggling tear benignant.

And still the ringing shouts went up

From doorway, thatch, and fields of tillage; The pall behind the standard seen

By one alone, of all the village.

The oak and cedar bend and writhe

When roars the wind through gap and braken ;

But 'tis the tenderest reed of all

That trembles first when earth is shaken.

ANONYMOUS.

COME UP FROM THE FIELDS, FATHER.

COME up from the fields, father, here's a letter from our Pete;

And come to the front door, mother, here's a letter from thy dear son.

Lo, 'tis autumn.

Lo, where the trees, deeper green, yellower and redder,

Cool and sweeten Ohio's villages with leaves fluttering in the moderate wind,

Where apples ripe in the orchards hang and grapes on the trellis'd vines,

(Smell you the smell of the grapes on the vines? Smell you the buckwheat where the bees were lately buzzing?)