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down lightnings from the sky, and bent the science of ages to the good of toiling man. Here Jefferson stood forth, the consecrated prophet of freedom, proclaiming from Independence Hall the destiny of a continent, the freedom of a people.

She has no orator to celebrate her glories, to point to her past; she has no Pierpont to hymn her illustrious dead; no Jared Sparks to chronicle her Revolutionary grandeur.

And yet the green fields of Germantown, the twilight vale of the Brandywine, the blood-nurtured soil of Paoli, all have their memories of the past, all are stored with their sacred treasure of whitened bones. From the far North, old Wyoming sends forth her voice-from her hills of grandeur and her valleys of beauty, she sends her voice, and at the sound the mighty dead of the land of Penn sweep by, a solemn pageant of the past.

Pennsylvanians, remember that though the land of Penn has no history, yet is her story written on her battle-fields.

Let us go to the battle of Germantown, in the dread hour of the retreat, and see how the children of Penn died. Let us go there, in the moment when Washington and his generals came back from the fight.

A pause in the din of battle! The denizens of Mount Airy and Chestnut Hill come crowding to their doors and windows; the hilly streets are occupied by anxious groups of people, who converse in low and whispered tones, with hurried gestures, and looks of surprise and fear. See yonder group clustered by the roadside: the gray-haired man, with his ear inclined intently toward Germantown, his hands outspread, and his trembling form bent with age; the maiden, fair-cheeked, red-lipped, and blooming, clad in the peasant costume; the matron, calm, self-possessed and placid; the boy, with the light flaxen hair, the ruddy cheeks, the merry blue eyes;-all standing silent and motionless, and listening, as with a common impulse, for the first news of the battle.

There is a strange silence upon the air. A moment ago, and far-off shouts broke on the ear, mingling with the thunder of cannon, and the shrieks of the terrible musketry; the earth seems to tremble, and far around, the wide horizon is

agitated by a thousand echoes. Now the scene is still as midnight. Not a sound, not a shout, not a distant hurrah. The anxiety of the group upon the hill becomes absorbing and painful. Looks of wonder, at the sudden pause of the battle, flit from face to face, and then low whispers are heard, and then comes another moment of fearful suspense. It is followed by a wild, rushing sound to the south, like the shrieks of the ocean waves, as they fill the hold of the foundering ship, while it sinks far into the loneliness of the seas.

Then a pause, and again that unknown sound, and then the tramp of ten thousand footsteps mingled with a wild and indistinct murmur. Tramp, tramp, tramp, the air is filled with the sound, and then distinct voices break upon the air, and the clatter is borne upon the breeze.

The boy turns to his mother, and asks her who has gained the day. Every heart feels vividly that the battle is now over, that the account of blood is near its close, that the appeal to the God of battles has been made. The mother turns her tearful eyes to the south; she cannot answer the question. The old man, awakened from a reverie, turns suddenly to the maiden, and clasps her arm with his trembling hands. His lips move, but his tongue is unable to syllable a sound. He flings a trembling hand southward, and speaks his question with the gesture of age. The battlethe battle-how goes the battle? As he makes the gesture, the figure of a soldier is seen rushing from the mist in the valley below; he comes speeding round the bend of the road, he ascends the hill, but his steps totter and he staggers to and fro like a drunken man. He bears a burden on his shoulders-is it the plunder of the fight? is it the spoil gathered from the ranks of the dead? No!-no! He bears an aged man on his shoulders.

Both are clad in the blue hunting-shirt, torn and tattered and stained with blood, it is true, but still you can recognize the uniform of the Revolution. The tottering soldier nears the group, he lays the aged veteran down by the roadside, and then looks around with a ghastly face and a rolling eye. There is blood dripping from his attire, his face is begrimed with powder and spotted with crimson drops. He glances wildly around, and then, kneeling on the sod, he takes the

hand of the aged man in his own, and raises his head upon his knee.

The battle-the battle-how goes the battle? The group cluster around as they ask the question. The young Continental makes no reply, but, gazing upon the face of the dying veteran, wipes the beaded drops of blood from his forehead.

"Comrade!" shrieks the veteran, "raise me on my feet, and wipe the blood from my eyes. I would see him once again." He is raised upon his feet, and the blood is wiped from his eyes. "I see-it is he-it is Washington! Yonder -yonder I see his sword-and Anthony Wayne-raise me higher, comrade-all is getting dark-I would see-Mad Anthony! Lift me, comrade-higher, higher--I see himI see Mad Anthony! Wipe the blood from my eyes, comrade, for it darkens my sight; it is dark-it is dark!"

And the young soldier held in his arms a lifeless corpse. The old veteran was dead. He had fought his last fight, fired his last shot, shouted the name of Mad Anthony for the last time; and yet his withered hand clenched, with the tightness of death, the broken bayonet.

The battle-the battle-how goes the battle? As the thrilling question again rang in his ears, the young Continental turned to the group, smiled ghastly, and then flung his wounded arm to the south.

"Lost!" he shrieked, and rushed on his way like one bereft of his senses. He had not gone ten steps, when he bit the dust of the roadside, and lay extended in the face of day, a lifeless corpse.

So they died; the young hero and the aged veteran, children of the land of Penn! So died thousands of their brethren throughout the continent-Quebec and Saratoga, Camden and Bunker Hill, to this hour, retain their bones!

Nameless and unhonored, the "Poor Men Heroes of Pennsylvania sleep the last slumber on every battle-field of the Revolution. The incident which we have pictured is but a solitary page among ten thousand. In every spear of grass that grows on our battle-fields, in every wild flower that blooms above the dead of the Revolution, you read the quiet heroism of the children of the land of Penn.

RRRRR*

MISS MINERVA'S DISAPPOINTMENT.

MRS. E. T. CORBETT.

Yes, Debby, 'twas a disapp'intment; and though, of course, I try

To look as ef I didn't mind it, I won't tell you a lie.

Ye see, he'd been a-comin' stiddy, and our folks sez, sez they,

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It's you, Minervy, that he's arter; he's sure to pop some day."

He'd walk in with the evenin' shadders, set in that easy

chair,

And praise my doughnuts, kinder sighin' about a bachelor's

fare.

And then his talk was so improvin', he made the doctrines

plain,

And when he'd pint a moral, allers looked straight at Mary

Jane.

She'd laugh, and give sech silly answers that no one could

approve;

But, law! the men can't fool me, Debby-it isn't sense they love.

It's rosy cheeks, and eyes a-sparklin'. Yes, yes, you may depend

That when a woman's smart and handy, knows how to bake and mend,

And keep her house and husband tidy, why, the fools will pass her by,

Bekase she's spent her youth a-learnin' their wants to satisfy.

Now Mr. Reed was allers talkin' of what a wife should be, So, Debby, was it any wonder I thought his hints meant me? And then when Mary Jane would giggle, and he would turn so red,

Could you have guessed that they was courtin', when not a word was said?

It all came out at last so sudden. 'Twas Wednesday of last week,

When Mr. Reed came in quite flustered. Thinks I, "He means to speak."

I'll own my heart beat quicker, Debby; for though, of course, it's bold

To like a man before he offers, I thought him good as gold.

Well, there we sot. I talked and waited; he hemmed and coughed awhile:

He seemed so most oncommon bashful I couldn't help but smile.

I thought about my pine-tar balsam that drives a cough

away,

And how when we was fairly married I'd dose him every day.

Just then he spoke: "Dear Miss Minervy, you must hev seen quite plain

That I'm in love-" "I hev," I answers. Sez he, "with Mary Jane."

"What did I do?" I nearly fainted, 'twas such a cruel shock, Yet there I had to set, as quiet as ef I was a rock,

And hear about her "girlish sweetness," and "buddin' beauty" too.

Don't talk to me of martyrs, Debby, I know what I've gone through.

Well, that's the end. The weddin's settled for June, he's in such haste.

I've given her the spreads I quilted, so they won't go to

waste.

I'd planned new curtains for his study, all trimmed with bands of blue.

I'm sure her cookin' never'll suit him-he's fond of eatin' too. Well, no, I wa'n't at meetin' Sunday. I don't find Mr. Reed Is quite as edifyin' lately; he can't move me, indeed.

And, Debby, when you see how foolish a man in love can act,

You can't hev sech a high opinion of him, and that's a fact. "I don't look well?" Spring weather, mebbe; it's gittin' warm, you know.

Good-by; I'm goin' to Uncle Jotham's, to stay a week or so.

TRUE TEACHING.

Thou must be true thyself,

If thou the truth wouldst teach;
Thy soul must overflow, if thou
Another soul wouldst reach,-
It needs the overflowing heart
To give the lips full speech.

Think truly, and thy thought

Shall the world's famine feed;

Speak truly, and each word of thine

Shall be a fruitful seed;

Live truly, and thy life shall be

A great and noble creed.

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