All silent now the Yankees stood,
And silent stood the Rebels.

No unresponsive soul had heard
That plaintive note's appealing,

So deeply" Home, Sweet Home" had stirred
The hidden founts of feeling.

Or Blue or Gray, the soldier sees,

As by the wand of fairy,

The cottage 'neath the live-oak trees,
The cabin by the prairie.

Or cold or warm, his native skies
Bend in their beauty o'er him;
Seen through the tear-mist in his eyes,
His loved ones stand before him.

As fades the iris after rain

In April's tearful weather,

The vision vanished, as the strain
And daylight died together.

But memory, waked by music's art,
Expressed in simplest numbers,
Subdued the sternest Yankee's heart,
Made light the Rebel's slumbers.

And fair the form of music shines,
That bright, celestial creature,
Who still, 'mid war's embattled lines,
Gave this one touch of Nature.

James Mathews Legaré.

BORN in Charleston, S. C., 1823. DIED at Aiken, S. C., 1859.

Soft are thy leaves and white: Her arms
Boast whiter charms.

Thy stem prone bent with loveliness

Of maiden grace possesseth less;
Therein she charms.

Thou in thy lake dost see

Thyself:-So she

Beholds her image in her eyes

Reflected. Thus did Venus rise

From out the sea.

Inconsolate, bloom not again,

Thou rival vain

Of her whose charms have thine outdone:
Whose purity might spot the sun,

And make thy leaf a stain.

Robert Collyer.

BORN in Keighley, Yorkshire, England, 1823.

UNDER THE SNOW.

[Treasures New and Old. Edited by Alice L. Williams. 1884.]

When Wagoner John got out his team,

Smiler and Whitefoot, Duke and Gray,

With the light in his eyes of a young man's dream,
As he thought of his wedding on New Year's Day

To Ruth, the maid with the bonnie brown hair,
And eyes of the deepest, sunniest blue,
Modest and winsome, and wondrous fair,
And true to her troth, for her heart was true.

"Thou's surely not going!" shouted mine host;
"Thou'll be lost in the drift, as sure as thou's born;

Thy lass winnot want to wed wi' a ghost,

And that's what thou'll be on Christmas morn.

"It's eleven long miles from Skipton toon
To Blueberg hooses 'e Washburn dale:

Thou had better turn back and sit thee doon,
And comfort thy heart wi' a drop o' good ale."

Turn the swallows flying south,
Turn the vines against the sun,
Herds from rivers in the drouth,
Men must dare or nothing 's done.

So what cares the lover for storm or drift,
Or peril of death on the haggard way?
He sings to himself like a lark in the lift,
And the joy in his heart turns December to May.

But the wind from the north brings a deadly chill Creeping into his heart, and the drifts are deep, Where the thick of the storm strikes Blueberg hill. He is weary and falls in a pleasant sleep,

And dreams he is walking by Washburn side,
Walking with Ruth on a summer's day,

Singing that song to his bonnie bride,
His own wife now forever and aye.

Now read me this riddle, how Ruth should hear
That song of a heart in the clutch of doom

Steal on her ear, distinct and clear

As if her lover was in the room.

And read me this riddle, how Ruth should know,
As she bounds to throw open the heavy door,
That her lover was lost in the drifting snow,
Dying or dead, on the great wild moor.

"Help! help!" "Lost! lost!"

Rings through the night as she rushes away,
Stumbling, blinded and tempest-tossed,
Straight to the drift where her lover lay.

And swift they leap after her into the night,
Into the drifts by Blueberg hill,

Ridsdale and Robinson, each with a light,

To find her there holding him white and still.

"He was dead in the drift, then,"

I hear them say,

As I listen in wonder,

Forgetting to play,

Fifty years syne come Christmas Day.

"Nay, nay, they were wed!" the dalesman cried,

66

By Parson Carmalt o' New Year's Day;

Bless ye! Ruth were me great-great grandsire's bride,

And Maister Frankland gave her away."

"But how did she find him under the snow ?"
They cried with a laughter touched with tears.
"Nay, lads," he said softly, "we never can know-
"No, not if we live a hundred years.

"There's a sight o' things gan

To the making o' man."

Then I rushed to my play

With a whoop and away,

Fifty years syne come Christmas Day.

James Roberts Gilmore.

BORN in Boston, Mass., 1823.

JOHN JORDAN, THE SCOUT.

[The Atlantic Monthly. 1865.]

HE dispatch was written on tissue paper, rolled into the form of a

THE

bullet, coated with warm lead, and put into the hand of the Kentuckian. He was given a carbine, a brace of revolvers, and the fleetest horse in his regiment, and, when the moon was down, started on his perilous journey. He was to ride at night, and hide in the woods or in the houses of loyal men in the daytime.

It was pitch-dark when he set out; but he knew every inch of the way, having travelled it often, driving mules to market. He had gone twenty miles by early dawn, and the house of a friend was only a few miles beyond him. The man himself was away; but his wife was at home, and she would harbor him till nightfall. He pushed on, and tethered his horse in the timber; but it was broad day when he rapped at the door, and was admitted. The good woman gave him breakfast, and showed him to the guest-chamber, where, lying down in his boots, he was soon in a deep slumber.

The house was a log cabin in the midst of a few acres of deadeningground from which trees have been cleared by girdling. Dense woods were all about it; but the nearest forest was a quarter of a mile distant, and should the scout be tracked, it would be hard to get away over this open space, unless he had warning of the approach of his pursuers. The woman thought of this, and sent up the road, on a mule, her whole worldly possessions, an old negro, dark as the night, but faithful as the sun in the heavens. It was high noon when the mule came back, his

heels striking fire, and his rider's eyes flashing, as if ignited from the sparks the steel had emitted.

"Dey'm comin', Missus!" he cried," not haff a mile away,-twenty secesh, ridin' as ef de debil wus arter 'em!"

She barred the door, and hastened to the guest-chamber.

"Go," she cried, "through the winder,-ter the woods! They'll be here in a minnit."

"How many is thar?" asked the scout.

"Twenty,—go,—go at once,—or you'll be taken!"

The scout did not move; but, fixing his eyes on her face, he said: "Yes, I yere 'em. Thar's a sorry chance for my life a'ready. But, Rachel, I've thet about me thet's wuth more'n my life,-thet, may-be, 'll save Kaintuck. If I'm killed, wull ye tuck it ter Cunnel Cranor, at Paris?"

"Yes, yes, I will.

I will. But go; you've not a minnit to lose, I tell you." "I know, but will ye swar it,-swar ter tuck this ter Cunnel Cranor 'fore th' Lord thet yeres us?"

'Yes, yes, I will," she said, taking the bullet.

already sounding in the door-yard. "It's too "Oh, why did you stop to parley?"

"Never mind, Rachel," answered the scout.

But horses' hoofs were late," cried the woman.

"Don't tuck on. Tuck

ye keer o' th' dispatch. Valu' it loike yer life,-loike Kaintuck. The Lord's callin' fur me, and I'm a'ready."

But the scout was mistaken. It was not the Lord, but a dozen devils

at the door-way.

66

What does ye want?" asked the woman, going to the door.

The man as come from Garfield's camp at sun-up,-John Jordan,

from the head o' Baine," answered a voice from the outside. "Ye karn't hev him fur th' axin'," said the scout.

send some o' ye whar the weather is warm, I reckon."

"Go away, or I'll

"Pshaw!" said another voice,-from his speech one of the chivalry. "There are twenty of us. We'll spare your life, if you give up the dispatch; if you don't, we'll hang you higher than Haman."

The reader will bear in mind that this was in the beginning of the war, when swarms of spies infested every Union camp, and treason was only a gentlemanly pastime, not the serious business it has grown to be since traitors are no longer dangerous.

"I've nothin' but my life that I'll guv up," answered the scout; "and ef ye tuck thet, ye'll hev ter pay the price,-six o' yourn.'

"Fire the house!" shouted one.

"No, don't do that," said another. "I know him,-he's cl'ar grit,— he'll die in the ashes; and we won't git the dispatch."

This sort of talk went on for half an hour; then there was a dead