SELECT READINGS.

“THE PRIDE OF BATTERY B."

[Mr. Cassaway, whose nom de plume is Derrick Dodd, is employed on the editorial staff of the San Francisco Post. His fame as a witty and pathetic writer is not confined to this country, his writings having received marked and favorable attention in England. This poem is a "gem of the purest ray serene❞— recounts an incident of the late civil war. A little orphan child, a war waif, adopted by a battery of the Southern troops, is so distressed by the failure of the tobacco supplies of her whilom guardians, that she escapes from her tent, and, crossing to the enemy's entrenchment, begs a supply from the Yankee soldiers. The latter send her back well supplied with the weed so dear to the soldier's heart, and during the rest of the engagement the gunners on the Yankee side refuse to direct their shells in the vicinity of the child's detachment. This poem has enjoyed remarkable popularity, and has been widely copied in England and elsewhere.]

South Mountain towered on our right, far off the river lay,
And over on the wooded hight we held their lines at bay.

At last the mutt'ring guns were stilled; the day died slow and wan;
At last the gunners' pipes were filled, the Sergeant's yarns began.
When, as the wind a moment blew aside the fragrant flood
Our brierwoods raised,-within our view a little maiden stood.
A tiny tot of six or seven, from fireside fresh she seemed
(Of such a little one in heaven one soldier often dreamed).
And, as we stared, her little hand went to her curly head

In grave salute: "And who are you?" at length the Sergeant said. "And where's your home?" he growled again. She lisped out,

"Who is me?

Why, don't you know? I'm little Jane, the Pride of Battery ‘B,’
My hone? Why, that was burned away, and pa and ma are dead,
And so I ride the guns all day along with Sergeant Ned.

And I've a drum that's not a toy, a cap with feathers, too,
And I march beside the drummer boy on Sundays at review;
But now our 'bacca's all give out, the men can't have their smoke,
And so they're cross-why, even Ned won't play with me and joke,

And the big Colonel said to-day-I hate to hear him swear-
He'd give a leg for a good pipe like the Yanks had over there.
And so I thought when beat the drum and the big guns were still,
I'd creep beneath the tent and come out here across the hill,
And beg, good Mister Yankee men, you'd give me some tobac;
Please do-when we get some again I'll surely bring it back.
Indeed I will, for Ned-says he-if I do what I say,

I'll be a general yet, maybe, and ride a prancing bay."

We brimmed her tiny apron o'er; you should have heard her laugh
As each man from his scanty store shook out a generous half.
To kiss the little mouth stooped down a score of grimy men,
Until the Sergeant's husky voice said, "Tention, Squad!" and then
We gave her escort, till good-night the pretty waif we bid,
And watched her toddle out of sight-or else 'twas tears that hid
Her tiny form-nor turned about a man, nor spoke a word,
Till after while a far, hoarse shout, upon the wind we heard!
We sent it back - then cast sad eye upon the scene around,
A baby's hand had touched the tie that brothers once had bound.
That's all-save when the dawn awoke again the work of hell,
And through the sullen clouds of smoke the screaming missiles fell;
Our General often rubbed his glass, and marveled much to see
Not a single shell that whole day fell in the lines of Battery “B.”

FRANK H. CASSAWAY.

THE BLUE AND THE GRAY.

[The women of Columbia, Mississippi, animated by noble sentiments, have shown themselves impartial in their offerings made to the memory of the dead. They strewed flowers alike on the graves of the Confederate and of the National soldiers.-This should be read in a natural voice, effusive utterance and low key.]

By the flow of the inland river,

Whence the fleets of iron have fled,

Where the blades of the grave-grass quiver,

Asleep are the ranks of the dead:

Under the sod and the dew,

Waiting the judgment day,

Under the one, the Blue,

Under the other, the Gray.

:

These in the robings of glory,

Those in the gloom of defeat,
All with the battle blood gory,
In the dusk of eternity meet:-
Under the sod and the dew,
Waiting the judgment day;
Under the laurel, the Blue,

Under the willow, the Gray.

From the silence of sorrowful hours
The desolate mourners go,

Lovingly laden with flowers,

Alike for the friend and the foe:-
Under the sod and the dew,

Waiting the judgment day;
Under the roses, the Blue,
Under the lilies, the Gray.

So, with an equal splendor,
The morning sun-rays fall,
With a touch impartially tender,
On the blossoms blooming for all:
Under the sod and the dew,

Waiting the judgment day;
'Broidered with gold, the Blue,
Mellowed with gold, the Gray.

So, when the summer calleth
On forest and field of grain,
With an equal murmur falleth
The cooling drip of the rain :—
Under the sod and the dew,
Waiting the judgment day;
Wet with the rain, the Blue,
Wet with the rain, the Gray

Sadly, but not with upbraiding,

The generous deed was done;

In the storm of the years that are fading No braver battle was won:

Under the sod and the dew,
Waiting the judgment day;
Under the blossoms, the Blue,

Under the garlands, the Gray.

No more shall the war-cry sever,
Or the winding rivers be red;
They banish our anger forever,

When they laurel the graves of our dead,-
Under the sod and the dew,

Waiting the judgment day;
Love and tears for the Blue,
Tears and love for the Gray.

F. M. FINCH.

THE STUTTERING LASS.

When deeply in love with Miss Emily Pryne,
I vowed, if the maiden would only be mine,
I would always endeavor to please her.

She blushed her consent, though the stuttering lass
Said never a word, except "You're an ass-
An ass-an ass-iduous teaser!"

But when we were married, I found to my ruth,
The stammering lady had spoken the truth.
For often in obvious dudgeon,

She'd say, if I ventured to give her a jog

In the way of reproof,-"You're a dog-you're a dog— A dog-a dog-matic curmudgeon!"

And once when I said, "We can hardly afford
This extravagant style, with our moderate hoard,
And hinted we ought to be wiser,

She looked, I assure you, exceedingly blue,

And fretfully cried, "You're a Jew-you're a JewA very judicious adviser!”

Again, when it happened that, wishing to shirk
Some rather unpleasant and arduous work,

I begged her to go to a neighbor,
She wanted to know why I made such a fuss,
And saucily said, "You're a cus-cus-cus-

You were always ac-cus-tomed to labor!"

Out of temper at last with the insolent dame,
And feeling that Madame was greatly to blame
To scold me instead of caressing,

I mimicked her speech,-like a churl as I am,—
And angrily said, “You're a dam—dam—dam—
A dam-age instead of a blessing!"

JOHN G. SAXE.

O, WHY SHOULD THE SPIRIT OF MORTAL BE PROUD?

[The following poem was a particular favorite with Mr. Lincoln. Mr. F. B. Carpenter, the artist, writes that while engaged in painting his picture at the White House, he was alone one evening with the President in his room, when he said: "There is a poem which has been a great favorite with me for years, which was first shown me when a young man, by a friend, and which I afterward saw and cut from a newspaper, and learned by heart. I would," he continued, "give a great deal to know who wrote it, but have never been able to ascertain."]

O, why should the spirit of mortal be proud?
Like a swift-fleeting meteor, fast-flying cloud,
A flash of the lightning, a break of the wave,
Man passes from life to his rest in the grave.

The leaves of the oak and the willow shall fade,

Be scattered around, and together be laid;

And the young and the old, and the low and the high,
Shall molder to dust and together shall lie.

The infant a mother attended and loved,
The mother that infant's affection who proved;
The husband that mother and infant who blessed,
Each, all, are away to their dwellings of rest.