"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?)

Above all, lo, the sky so calm, so transparent after the rain, and with wondrous clouds,

Below too, all calm, all vital and beautiful, and the farm prospers well.

Down in the fields all prospers well;

But now from the fields come, father, come at the daughter's call,

And come to the entry, mother, to the front door come right away.

Fast as she can she hurries, something ominous, her steps trembling,

She does not tarry to smooth her hair nor adjust her cap.

Open the envelope quickly!

O this is not our son's writing, yet his name is sign'd, O a strange hand writes for our dear son. O stricken mother's soul !

All swims before her eyes, flashes with black, she catches the main words only,

Sentences broken, gunshot wound in the breast, cavalry skirmish, taken to hospital,

At present low, but will soon be better.

Ah, now the single figure to me,

Amid all teeming and wealthy Ohio, with all its cities

and farms,

Sickly white in the face and dull in the head, very faint,

By the jamb of a door leans.

Grieve not so, dear mother (the just-grown daughter speaks through her sobs,

The little sisters huddle around speechless and dismay'd),

See, dearest mother, the letter says Pete will soon be better!

Alas! poor boy, he will never be better (nor maybe needs to be better, that brave and simple soul), While they stand at home at the door he is dead already,

The only son is dead.

But the mother needs to be better,

She with thin form presently drest in black,

By day her meals untouch'd, then at night fitfully sleeping, often waking,

In the midnight waking, weeping, longing with one deep longing,

O that she might withdraw unnoticed, silent from life escape and withdraw,

To follow, to seek, to be with her dear dead son.

WALT WHITMAN.

NOT YET.

O COUNTRY, marvel of the earth!
O realm to sudden greatness grown!
The age that gloried in thy birth,

Shall it behold thee overthrown?
Shall traitors lay that greatness low?
No, land of Hope and Blessing, No!
And we who wear thy glorious name,
Shall we, like cravens, stand apart,
When those whom thou hast trusted aim
The death-blow at thy generous heart?
Forth goes the battle-cry, and lo!
Hosts rise in harness, shouting, No!

And they who founded, in our land,

The power that rules from sea to sea,
Bled they in vain, or vainly planned

To leave their country great and free?
Their sleeping ashes, from below,
Send up the thrilling murmur, No!