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The damp drops stood on his temples; drawn was the boyish

mouth;

And I thought me of the mother waiting down in the South.

Oh, pluck was he to the backbone, and clear grit through and

through;

Boasted and bragged like a trooper; but the big words wouldn't do.
The boy was dying, sir, dying, as plain as plain could be,
Worn out by his ride with Morgan up from the Tennessee.

But when I told the laddie that I too was from the South,
Water came in his dim eyes, and quivers around his mouth.
"Do you know the Blue-grass country?” he wistful began to say;
Then swayed like a willow sapling, and fainted dead away.

I had him into the log-house, and worked and brought him to;
I fed him, and coaxed him, as I thought his mother'd do;
And, when the lad got better, and the noise in his head was gone,
Morgan's men were miles away, galloping, galloping on.

"Oh, I must go," he muttered; "I must be up and away!
Morgan-Morgan is waiting for me! Oh, what will Morgan say?
But I heard a sound of tramping and kept him back from the door-
Tne ringing sound of horses' hoofs that I had heard before.

And on, on, came the soldiers--the Michigan cavalry—
And fast they rode, and black they looked, galloping rapidly,-
They had followed hard on Morgan's track; they had followed day
and night;

But of Morgan and Morgan's raiders they had never caught a sight.

And rich Ohio sat startled through all those summer days:
For strange, wild men were galloping over her broad highways-
Now here, now there, now seen, now gone, now north, now east,
now west,

Through river-valleys and corn-land farms, sweeping away her best.

A bold ride and a long ride! But they were taken at last.
They almost reached the river by galloping hard and fast;
But the boys in blue were upon them ere ever they gained the ford,
And Morgan, Morgan the raider, laid down his terrible sword.

Well, I kept the boy till evening-kept him against his will— But he was too weak to follow, and sat there pale and still. When it was cool and dusky-you'll wonder to hear me tell— But I stole down to that gully, and brought up Kentucky Belle.

I kissed the star on her forehead-my pretty gentle lass-
But I knew that she'd be happy back in the old Blue-grass.
A suit of clothes of Conrad's, with all the money I had,
And Kentuck, pretty Kentuck, I gave to the worn-out lad.

I guided him to the southward as well as I knew how;
The boy rode off with many thanks, and many a backward bow;
And then the glow it faded, and my heart began to swell,
As down the glen away she went, my lost Kentucky Belle!

When Conrad came in the evening, the moon was shining high; Baby and I were both crying--I couldn't tell him why

But a battered suit of rebel gray was hanging on the wall,

And a thin old horse, with drooping head, stood in Kentucky's stall.

Well, he was kind, and never once said a hard word to me;
He knew I couldn't help it-'twas all for the Tennessee.
But, after the war was over, just think what came to pass—
A letter, sir; and the two were safe back in the old Blue-grass.

The lad had got across the border, riding Kentucky Belle;
And Kentuck, she was thriving, and fat and hearty and well;
He cared for her, and kept her, nor touched her with whip or spur.
Ah! we've had many horses, but never a horse like her!

CONSTANCE FENIMORE WOOLSON,

་་

MISS EDITH HELPS THINGS ALONG.

"My sister'll be down in a minute, and says you're to wait, if you

please;

And says I might stay till she came, if I'd promise her never to tease,

Nor speak till you spoke to me first But that's nonsense; for how

would you know

What she told me to say, if I didn't? Don't you really and truly think so?

"And then you'd feel strange here alone. And you wouldn't know just where to sit;

For that chair isn't strong on its legs, and we never use it a bit;

We keep it to match with the sofa; but Jack says it would be just

like you

To flop yourself right down upon it, and knock out the very last

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screw.

Suppose you try! I won't tell. You're afraid to! Oh, you're afraid they would think it was mean!

Well, then, there's the album; that's pretty, if you're sure that your fingers are clean.

For sister says sometimes I daub it; but she only says that when she's

cross.

There's her picture. You know it? It's like her; but she ain't as good-looking, of course.

"This is ME. It's the best of 'em all. Now, tell me, you'd never have thought

That once I was little as that? It's the only one that could be bought; For that was the message to pa from the photograph-man where I

sat,

That he wouldn't print off any more till he first got his money for that.

"What? Maybe you're tired of waiting. Why, often she's longer than this.

There's all her back hair to do up, and all her front curls to friz. But it's nice to be sitting here talking like grown people, just you and me!

Do

you think you'll be coming here often? Oh, do! But don't come like Tom Lee,—

"Tom Lee, her last beau. Why, my goodness! he used to be here day and night,

Till the folks thought he'd be her husband; and Jack says that gave him a fright.

You won't run away, then, as he did? for you're not a rich man, they

say.

Pa says you are poor as a church mouse.

poor are they?

Now, are you? And how

"Ain't you glad that you met me? Well, I am, for I know now your

hair isn't red;

But what there's left of it is mousey, and not what that naughty Jack

said.

But there! I must go.

just to see

Sister's coming. But I wish I could wait

If she ran up to you and kissed you in the way that she used to kiss

Lee."

BRET HARTE.

THE BALLAD OF THE OYSTERMAN.

It was a tall young oysterman lived by the river side,
His shop was just upon the bank, his boat was on the tide;
The daughter of a fisherman, that was so straight and slim,
Lived over on the other bank, right opposite to him.

It was the pensive oysterman that saw a lovely maid,
Upon a moonlight evening, a sitting in the shade;

He saw her wave her handkerchief, as much as if to say,
"I'm wide awake, young oysterman, and all the folks away."

Then up arose the oysterman and to himself said he;

"I guess I'll leave the skiff at home, for fear that folks should see; I read it in the story book, that, for to kiss his dear,

Leander swam the Hellespont,—and I will swim this here.”

And he has leaped into the waves, and crossed the shining stream,
And he has clambered up the bank, all in the moonlight gleam;
O there were kisses sweet as dew, and words as soft as rain,—
But they have heard her father's step, and in he leaps again!

Out spoke the ancient fisherman,-"O what was that, my
daughter?"

"Twas nothing but a pebble, sir, I threw into the water."

“And what is that, pray tell me, love, that paddles off so fast?" "It's nothing but a porpoise, sir, that's been a swimming past."

Out spoke the ancient fisherman,-" Now bring me my harpoon!
I'll get into my fishing-boat, and fix the fellow soon."
Down fell that pretty innocent, as falls a snow-white lamb,

Her hair drooped round her pallid cheeks, like sea-weeds on a
clam.

Alas for those two loving ones! she waked not from her swound,
And he was taken with the cramp, and in the waves was drowned;
But fate has metamorphosed them, in pity of their woe,
And now they keep an oyster-shop for mermaids down below.

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.

AMERICAN INDEPENDENCE.

[The following is an extract from a speech supposed by many to have been delivered by John Adams in support of American Independence. It was really delivered by Daniel Webster, who was its author-and contains sentiments which were cherished by Adams. In his discourse on Adams and Jefferson he imagines Mr. Adams to have thus spoken in favor of the immediate adoption of the Declaration of Independence. It is a masterly production. This famous speech affords a fine opportunity for the grandest declamation; the student will do well to read and reread and ponder over every paragraph until he catches the exact meaning intended to be conveyed. It should be recited on a moderately high key, with rather quick time, and with great and increasing animation and power. Emphasis and quantity should be combined in its elocution.]

Sink or swim, live or die, survive or perish, I give my hand and my heart to this vote. It is true, indeed, that in the beginning, we aimed not at independence. But there's a divinity that shapes our ends. The injustice of England has driven us to arms; and, blinded to her own interests, for our good, she has obstinately persisted, till independence is now within our grasp.

We have to reach forth to it, and it is ours. Why, then, should we defer the declaration? Is any man so weak, as now to hope for a reconciliation with England? Do we mean to submit to the measures of parliament, Boston port-bill and all? I know we do not mean to submit. We never shall submit.

The war, then, must go on. We must fight it through. And if the war must go on, why put off longer the Declaration of Indepen dence? That measure will strengthen us. It will give us character

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