Imatges de pÓgina
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barricade was trembling, he was singing. It was not a child, it was not a man; it was a strange, fairy gamin, playing hide and seek with Death. Every time the face of the grim spectre approached, the gamin snapped his fingers. One bullet, however, better aimed or more treacherous than the others, reached the will-o'-the-wisp child. They saw Gavroche totter, then fall. The whole barricade gave a cry. But the gamin had fallen only to rise again. A long stream of blood rolled down his face. He raised both arms in the air, looked in the direction whence the shot came, and began to sing:

“I am buried in earth

'Tis the fault"

He did not finish. A second ball from the same marksman cut him short. This time he fell with his face upon the pavement and did not stir again. That little great soul had taken flight.

THE SECRETS OF MASONRY.

The story is told of a Mason's wife,
Who plagued him almost out of his life
To learn the secret-whatever it be--
The mystic words of Masonry.
Said he, “Now, Mary, if I should tell
The awful words, I know very well
When you get mad, my darling dear,
You'll rip them out, that all may hear.”
Said she, “Oh, Edward, never! never!
They'll rest in my heart's recess forever!
Tell me, Edward, and never more
Shall I scold, or fret, or slam the door;
And I'll try to be quiet with all my might,
No matter what hour you may come at night."
No man, unless he were made of wood,
Could resist an offer so fair and good.
So he said, “Now, Mary, my woe or weal
Depends on the words I'm about to reveal.”
“Oh, Ned," she answered, “ you may depend,
I'll keep the secret till life shall end.”
Said be," The secret that Masonry screens-
The awful words are- -“Pork and Beans !"
Bcarcely a week had passed away,
When Mary got mad, and what did she say?
She shouted out that all might hear,
"Pork and Beans! I've got you thero!"

MUSIC IN CAMP.-John R. THOMPSON.

Two armies covered hill and plain,

Where Rappahannock's waters
Ran deeply crimsoned with the stain

Of battle's recent slaughters.
The summer clouds lay pitched like tents

In meads of heavenly azure;
And each dread gun of the elements

Slept in its high embrasure.
The breeze so softly blew, it made

No forest leaf to quiver,
And the smoke of the random cannonado

Rolled slowly from the river. And now where circling hills looked down

With cannon grimly planted,
O'er listless camp and silent town

The golden sunset slanted;
When on the fervid air there came

A strain, now rich, now tender,
The music seemed itself aflame

With day's departing splendor.
A Federal band, which eve and morn

Played measures brave and nimble,
Had just struck up with flute and morn

And lively clash of cymbal.
Down flocked the soldiers to the banks,

Till, margined by its pebbles,
One wooded shore was blue with “ Yanks,”

And one was gray with “Rebels.” Then all was still; and then the band

With movement light and tricksy, Made stream and forest, hill and strand,

Reverberate with “ Dixie."
The conscious stream, with burnished glow,

Went proudly o'er its pebbles,
But thrilled throughout its deepest flow

With yelling of the Rebels.
Again a pause, and then again

The trumpet pealed sonorous,
And“ Yankee Doodle” was the strain

To which the shore gave chorus.

the

The laughing ripple shoreward flew

To kiss the shining pebbles --
Loud shrieked the swarming Boys in Blue

Defiance to the Rebels.
And yet once more the bugle sang

Above the stormy riot;
No shout
upon

evening rangThere reigned a holy quiet. The sad, slow stream its noiseless flood

Poured o'er the glistening pebbles :
All silent now the Yankees stood,

All 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.

THE HUNTER'S LAST RIDE. One autumn eve, when loud: unfurled

Swept down the ...c' ir Bannerce, splendoi, And dying sunset bathed ino work

In dolphin rainbows mild and tender,
A hunter, wearied with the chase,
With his spent steed was slowly turning

GGGGG

Unto his far-off resting-place,

Where his lone camp-fire light was burning; For many a mile his steed had gone O'er the wide prairie since the dawn. The choice bits from the saddle hungThe deer's fat haunch, the buffalo's tongueA simple but a sweet repast To cheer his long and painful fast. The steed was full of strength and grace, The noblest of his noble race In toil, in battle, or in chase, To hunt the bear on mountain side, To chase the deer o'er prairie wide, Or dash upon the ambuscade Of wily Indian foe arrayed, Or breast the torrent's angry flow, Or plunge through winter's deepest snow. To huntsman who has borne the toil, Welcome the rest, and sweet the spoil: So mused McGregor in his mind, Leading his steed, when far behind Upon his startled ear there came A rushing sound of distant flame. A moment scarce he turned his headToo well he knew that sound of dread; One moment, and McGregor saw A sight to chill his soul with awe: Behind him, hastening onward, came A long, red, serpent line of flame, Which, hissing, shot its tongues of light Upward into the gathering night. “Now, Saladin,” the huntsman cried, As onward swept the fiery tide“Now Saladin, my gallant steed, Attest thyself of noble breed; For never yet thy matchless speed Has served us in so sore a need; And never, in the fiercest chase, Hast thou e'er run so dread a race As this wild flight for life or death From yon fire-demon's scorching breath me With nostril spread, and pointed ear, And eye of fierceness, not of fear, A moment brief Saladin halted, While to his seat the rider vaultedA moment snuffed the hot flame's breath, The stifling atmosphere of death; A moment shook his streaming mane,

Then sped like lightning o'er the plain.
Fly! not for one brief second stay;
Fly for thy life--away! away!
Stretch every muscle-sinew-fly!
To pause one moment is to die.
Weary and worn, and spent with pain,
The struggling steed bounds o'er the plain.
The mad fame bright and brighter glows,
The fatal circle smaller grows;
And hotter, fiercer, wilder, higher
Leap the red demons of the fire.
'Tis on him! Now, at last,
Encircled by the fiery blast,
McGregor stands, with folded hands,
Firm as the martyr when he braves
The rack, the fagot, or the waves.
Exhausted, panting, foaming, gasping,
As though an iron band were clasping
His laboring chest, Saladin sank
With quivering side and streaming flank,
While his pale rider rent the air
With one sad groan of deep despair.
Red rose the fire-cave's crackling arch,

Red rose the lurid walls around him
The hungry flames his pulses parch,

And like a boa's coils have bound him. Rest, huntsman, from thy final chase !

Rest, Saladin, from thy last long race!

EVERY YEAR.--ALBERT PIKE.

The spring has less of brightness,

Every year;
And the snow a ghastlier whiteness,

Every year;
Nor do summer flowers quicken,
Nor the autumn fruitage thicken,
As they once did, for they sicken,

Every year.
It is growing darker, colder,

Every year;
As the heart and soul grow older,

Every year;
I care not now for dancing,
Or for eyes with passion glancing,
Love is less and less entrancing,

Every year.

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