Matted and damp are the curls of gold, Kissing the snow of the fair young brow, Pale are the lips of delicate mold-- Somebody's Darling is dying now.

Back from his beautiful blue-veined brow Brush all the wandering waves of gold, Cross his hands on his bosom now-- Somebody's Darling is still and cold.

Kiss him once for somebody's sake, Murmur a prayer both soft and low; One bright curl from its fair mates take-- They were somebody's pride, you know.

Somebody's hand hath rested there-- Was it a mother's, soft and white?

And have the lips of a sister fair Been baptized in their waves of light?

G.o.d knows best! he was somebody's love; Somebody's heart enshrined him there; Somebody wafted his name above, Night and morn on the wings of prayer.

Somebody wept when he marched away, Looking so handsome, brave, and grand; Somebody's kiss on his forehead lay, Somebody clung to his parting hand.

Somebody's waiting and watching for him-- Yearning to hold him again to her heart; And there he lies with his blue eyes dim, And the smiling, child-like lips apart.

Tenderly bury the fair young dead, Pausing to drop on his grave a tear; Carve in the wooden slab at his head, "Somebody's Darling slumbers here."

_Maria La Coste._

The Pride of Battery B

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

At last the muttering guns were still; the day died slow and wan; At last the gunners pipes did fill, 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 home? 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 'Lone Jack.'

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 ap.r.o.n 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 awhile a far, hoa.r.s.e shout upon the wind we heard!

We sent it back, then cast sad eyes upon the scene around; A baby's hand had touched the ties that brothers once had bound.

That's all--save when the dawn awoke again the work of h.e.l.l, And through the sullen clouds of smoke the screaming missiles fell, Our general often rubbed his gla.s.s, and marveled much to see Not a single sh.e.l.l that whole day fell in the camp of Battery B.

_Frank H. Ga.s.saway._

The Wood-Box

It was kept out in the kitchen, and 'twas long and deep and wide, And the poker hung above it and the shovel stood beside, And the big, black cookstove, grinnin' through its grate from ear to ear, Seemed to look as if it loved it like a brother, pretty near.

Flowered oilcloth tacked around it kept its cracks and knot-holes hid, And a pair of leather hinges fastened on the heavy lid, And it hadn't any bottom--or, at least, it seemed that way When you hurried in to fill it, so's to get outside and play.

When the noons was hot and lazy and the leaves hung dry and still, And the locust in the pear tree started up his planin'-mill, And the drum-beat of the breakers was a soothin', temptin' roll, And you knew the "gang" was waitin' by the brimmin' "swimmin' hole"-- Louder than the locust's buzzin,' louder than the breakers' roar, You could hear the wood-box holler, "Come and fill me up once more!"

And the old clock ticked and chuckled as you let each armful drop, Like it said, "Another minute, and you're nowheres near the top!"

In the chilly winter mornin's when the bed was snug and warm, And the frosted winders tinkled 'neath the fingers of the storm, And your breath rose off the piller in a smoky cloud of steam-- Then that wood-box, grim and empty, came a-dancin' through your dream, Came and pounded at your conscience, screamed in aggravatin' glee, "Would you like to sleep this mornin'? You git up and 'tend to me!"

Land! how plain it is this minute--shed and barn and drifted snow, And the slabs of oak a-waitin!, piled and ready, in a row.

Never was a fishin' frolic, never was a game of ball, But that mean, provokin' wood-box had to come and spoil it all; You might study at your lessons and 'twas full and full to stay, But jest start an Injun story, and 'twas empty right away.

Seemed as if a spite was in it, and although I might forgit All the other ch.o.r.es that plagued me, I can hate that wood-box yit: And when I look back at boyhood--shakin' off the cares of men-- Still it comes to spoil the picture, screamin', "Fill me up again!"

_Joseph C. Lincoln._

Inasmuch

Good Deacon Roland--"may his tribe increase!"-- Awoke one Sabbath morn feeling at peace With G.o.d and all mankind. His wants supplied, He read his Bible and then knelt beside The family altar, and uplifted there His voice to G.o.d in fervent praise and prayer; In praise for blessings past, so rich and free, And prayer for benedictions yet to be.

Then on a stile, which spanned the dooryard fence, He sat him down complacently, and thence Surveyed with pride, o'er the far-reaching plain, His flocks and herds and fields of golden grain; His meadows waving like the billowy seas, And orchards filled with over-laden trees, Quoth he: "How vast the products of my lands; Abundance crowns the labor of my hands, Great is my substance; G.o.d indeed is good, Who doth in love provide my daily food."

While thus he sat in calm soliloquy, A voice aroused him from his reverie,-- A childish voice from one whose shoeless feet Brought him unnoticed to the deacon's seat; "Please mister, I have eaten naught to-day; If I had money I would gladly pay For bread; but I am poor, and cannot buy My breakfast; mister, would you mind if I Should ask for something, just for what you call Cold pieces from your table, that is all?"

The deacon listened to the child's request, The while his penetrating eye did rest On him whose tatters, trembling, quick revealed The agitation of the heart concealed Within the breast of one unskilled in ruse, Who asked not alms like one demanding dues.

Then said the deacon: "I am not inclined To give encouragement to those who find It easier to beg for bread betimes, Than to expend their strength in earning dimes Wherewith to purchase it. A parent ought To furnish food for those whom he has brought Into this world, where each one has his share Of tribulation, sorrow, toil and care.

I sympathize with you, my little lad, Your dest.i.tution makes me feel so sad; But, for the sake of those who should supply Your wants, I must your earnest plea deny; And inasmuch as giving food to you Would be providing for your parents, too, Thus fostering vagrancy and idleness, I cannot think such charity would bless Who gives or takes; and therefore I repeat, I cannot give you anything to eat."

Before this "vasty deep" of logic stood The child nor found it satisfying food.

Nor did he tell the tale he might have told Of parents slumbering in the grave's damp mould, But quickly shrank away to find relief In giving vent to his rekindled grief, While Deacon Roland soon forgot the appeal In meditating on his better weal.

Ere long the Sabbath bells their peals rang out To summon worshippers, with hearts devout, To wait on G.o.d and listen to His word; And then the deacon's pious heart was stirred; And in the house of G.o.d he soon was found Engaged in acts of worship most profound.

Wearied, however, with his week-day care, He fell asleep before the parson's prayer Was ended; then he dreamed he died and came To heaven's grand portal, and announced his name: "I'm Deacon Roland, called from earth afar, To join the saints; please set the gates ajar, That I may 'join the everlasting song,'

And mingle ever with the ransomed throng."

Then lo! "a horror of great darkness" came Upon him, as he heard a voice exclaim: "Depart from me! you cannot enter here!

I never knew you, for indeed, howe'er You may have wrought on earth, the sad, sad fact Remains, that life's sublimest, worthiest act--"

The deacon woke to find it all a dream Just as the minister announced his theme: "My text," said he, "doth comfort only such As practice charity; for 'inasmuch As ye have done it to the least of these My little ones' saith He who holds the keys Of heaven, 'ye have done it unto me,'

And I will give you immortality."

Straightway the deacon left his cushioned pew, And from the church in sudden haste withdrew, And up the highway ran, on love's swift feet To overtake the child of woe, and greet Him as the worthy representative Of Christ the Lord and to him freely give All needful good, that thus he might atone For the neglect which he before had shown.

Thus journeying, G.o.d directed all his way, O'er hill and dale, to where the outcast lay Beside the road bemoaning his sad fate.

And then the deacon said, "My child, 'tis late; Make haste and journey with me to my home; To guide you thither, I myself have come; And you shall have the food you asked in vain, For G.o.d himself hath made my duty plain; If he demand it, all I have is thine; Shrink not, but trust me; place thy hand in mine."

And as they journeyed toward the deacon's home, The child related how he came to roam, Until the listening deacon understood The touching story of his orphanhood.

Then, finding in the little waif a gem Worthy to deck the Saviour's diadem, He drew him to his loving breast, and said, "My child, you shall by me be clothed and fed; Nor shall you go from hence again to roam While G.o.d in love provides for us a home."

And as the weeks and months roll on apace, The deacon held the lad in love's embrace; And being childless did on him confer The boon of sonship.

Thus the almoner Of G.o.d's great bounty to the dest.i.tute The deacon came to be; and as the fruit Of having learned to keep the golden rule His charity became all-bountiful; And from thenceforth he lived to benefit Mankind; and when in life's great book were writ Their names who heeded charity's request, Lo! Deacon Roland's "name led all the rest."