standing in the sunlight, sobbing; at the turn of the road a hand waves-she answers by holding high in her loving hands the child. He is gone, and forever! We see them all as they march proudly away under the flaunting flags, keeping time to the wild, grand music of war-marching down the streets of the great cities, through the towns and across the prairies, down to the fields of glory—to do and to die for the eternal right.

We go with them one and all. We are by their sides on all the gory fields, in all the hospitals of pain, on all the weary marches. We stand guard with them in the wild storm and under the quiet stars. We are with them in the ravine running with blood-in the furrows of old fields. We are with them between contending hosts, unable to move, wild with thirst, the life ebbing slowly away among the withered leave.. We see them pierced by the balls and torn with shells in the trenches by the forts, and in the whirlwind of a charge, when men become iron, with nerves of steel.

We are with them in the prisons of hatred and famine, but human speech can never tell what they endured.

We are home when the news comes that they are dead. We see the maiden in the shadow of her first sorrow. We see the silvered head of the old man bowed with the last grief,

The past rises before us, and we see four millions of human beings governed by the lash-we see them bound hand and foot-we hear the stroke of cruel whips-we see the hounds tracking women through tangled swamps. We see babies sold from the breasts of mothers. Cruelty unspeakable! Outrage infinite!

Four million bodies in chains--four million souls

in fetters. All the sacred relations of wife, mother, father and child trampled beneath the brutal feet of might. And all this was done under our own beautiful banner of the free.

We hear the roar and The broken fetters fall.

The past rises before us. shriek of the bursting shell. These heroes died. We look. Instead of slaves we see men, and women, and children. The wand of progress touches the auction block, the slave-pen, the whipping-post, and we see homes, and firesides, and school houses, and books, and where all was want, and crime, and cruelty, and fetters, we see the faces of the free.

These heroes are dead. They died for libertythey died for us. They are at rest. They sleep in the land they made free, under the flag they rendered stainless; under the solemn pines, the sad hemlocks, the tearful willows and the embracing vines. They sleep beneath the shadows of the clouds, careless alike of sunshine and of storm; each in the windowless palace of rest. Earth may run red with other wars -they are at peace. In the midst of battles, in the roar of conflict they found the serenity of death. have one sentiment for the soldiers, living and deadcheers for the living and tears for the dead.

BURNED OUT.

BY CARRIE HEA.

Yes, parson, it's all gone-my little home there,
And things I've worked for years and years together;
Burned to the ground last night-and now I'm left here
Without a shelter in this cold March weather.

But, as you say, I've friends who'll take me in,
'Till I can build another roof above me-
It's tough to call that "home" instead of this,
Where long I've lived with those who used to love me.
"Be thankful that my life was spared?" I am, sir;
You say, "Don't take it quite so hard, my friend.”
Some things burned up beside my house, for which, sir,
I grieve with sorrow that will never end.

Why, yes, I was insured-but that's no matter.
I soon could earn enough to build again,
But then, those other things that I just spoke of—
I'll tell you, parson, it will ease the pain.

I had a little, faded, yellow letter;

A mother wrote it to her absent son;

You see the son before you—but the mother

Died years ago—and, oh! that letter's gone!

Parson, you know my wife-the best, best wife, sir-
You came that night she died, a year ago.

When my time comes, if I'm one-half as ready,
The Lord will take me straight to heaven, I know.

I had her picture hung above my table—

Just think of it; it nearly drives me mad!
It chokes me; but I'll try to tell you, parson—
Her picture's burned-the only one I had!

And then, I lost my boy-I had a ringlet—
I cut it from his head the night he died;
And when I thought about that curl that morning,
You cannot wonder, can you, that I cried?

And then my little girl, my one last treasure;
Her voice was like a little silver bell.

And her blue eyes-such eyes! but there, I know sir,
There's no one could describe my little Nell.

I kept her little shoes upon my shelf, sir,
Where I could see them every dreary day;
They always made me think of those sweet verses,
"Those little feet can never go astray."

Do "all things work together for our good," sir?
I tell you I can't make it seem just right;
Ned's curl, Nell's shoes, wife's picture, mother's letter,
All burned to ashes in the fire last night.

I knew that you would listen to my story-
I felt 'twould do me good to talk it over.
You see, the worst that the fire can burn, sir,
Are things insurance policies don't cover.

IN THE BOTTOM DRAWER.

I saw wife pull out the bottom drawer of the old family bureau this evening, and I went softly out, and wandered up and down, until I knew that she had shut it up and gone to her sewing. We have some things. laid away in that drawer which the gold of kings could not buy, and yet they are relics which grieve us until both our hearts are sore. I haven't dared look at them for a year, but I remember each article.

There are two worn shoes, a little chip-hat with part of the brim gone, some stockings, pants, a coat, two or three spools, bits of broken crockery, a whip, and several toys. Wife-poor thing goes to that drawer every day of her life, and prays over it, and lets her tears fall upon the precious articles; but I dare not go.

Sometimes we speak of little Jack, but not often. It has been a long time, but somehow we can't get over grieving. He was such a burst of sunshine into our lives that his going away has been like covering

our every-day existence with a pall. Sometimes, when we sit alone of an evening, I writing and she sewing, a child on the street will call out as our boy used to, and we will both start up with beating hearts and a wild hope, only to find the darkness more of a burden than ever.

It is so still and quiet now. I look up at the window where his blue eyes used to sparkle at my coming, but he is not there: I listen for his pattering feet, his merry shout, and his ringing laugh; but there is no sound. There is no one to climb over my knees, no one to search my pockets and tease for presents: and I never find the chairs turned over, the broom down, or ropes tied to the door-knobs.

I want some one to tease me for my knife, to ride on my shoulder; to lose my axe; to follow me to the gate when I go, and be there to meet me when I come; to call "good-night" from the little bed, now empty. And wife, she misses him still more: there are no little feet to wash, no prayers to say; no voice teasing for lumps of sugar, or sobbing with the pain of a hurt toe; and she would give her own life, almost, to awake at midnight, and look across to the crib and see our boy there as he used to be.

So we preserve our relics; and when we are dead we hope that strangers will handle them tenderly, even if they shed no tears over them.

A TRAVELER'S EVENING SONG.

MRS. HEMANS.

FATHER! Guide me, day declines;

Hollow winds are in the pines;
Darkly waves each giant bough
O'er the sky's last crimson glow;