To lead the crouching line once more The grand old fellow came.

No wounded man but raised his head And strove to gasp his name, And those who could not speak nor stir "G.o.d blessed him" just the same.

For he was all the world to us, That hero grey and grim; Right well he knew that fearful slope We'd climb with none but him, Though while his white head led the way We'd charge h.e.l.l's portals in.

This time we were not half-way up, When, 'midst the storm of sh.e.l.l, Our leader, with his sword upraised, Beneath our bay'nets fell; And, as we bore him back, the foe Set up a joyous yell.

Our hearts went with him. Back we swept, And when the bugle said, "Up, charge, again!" no man was there But hung his dogged head.

"We've no one left to lead us now,"

The sullen soldiers said.

Just then, before the laggard line, The colonel's horse we spied-- Bay Billy, with his trappings on, His nostrils swelling wide, As though still on his gallant back His master sat astride.

Right royally he took the place That was his old of wont, And with a neigh, that seemed to say, Above the battle's brunt, "How can the Twenty-second charge If I am not in front?"

Like statues we stood rooted there, And gazed a little s.p.a.ce; Above that floating mane we missed The dear familiar face; But we saw Bay Billy's eye of fire, And it gave us hearts of grace.

No bugle-call could rouse us all As that brave sight had done; Down all the battered line we felt A lightning impulse run; Up, up the hill we followed Bill, And captured every gun!

And when upon the conquered height Died out the battle's hum; Vainly 'mid living and the dead We sought our leader dumb; It seemed as if a spectre steed To win that day had come.

At last the morning broke. The lark Sang in the merry skies, As if to e'en the sleepers there It said awake, arise!-- Though naught but that last trump of all Could ope their heavy eyes.

And then once more, with banners gay, Stretched out the long brigade; Trimly upon the furrowed field The troops stood on parade, And bravely 'mid the ranks we closed The gaps the fight had made.

Not half the Twenty-second's men Were in their place that morn, And Corp'ral d.i.c.k, who yester-morn Stood six brave fellows on, Now touched my elbow in the ranks, For all between were gone.

Ah! who forgets that dreary hour When, as with misty eyes, To call the old familiar roll The solemn sergeant tries-- One feels that thumping of the heart As no prompt voice replies.

And as in falt'ring tone and slow The last few names were said, Across the field some missing horse Toiled up with weary tread.

It caught the sergeant's eye, and quick Bay Billy's name was read.

Yes! there the old bay hero stood, All safe from battle's harms, And ere an order could be heard, Or the bugle's quick alarms, Down all the front, from end to end, The troops presented arms!

Not all the shoulder-straps on earth Could still our mighty cheer.

And ever from that famous day, When rang the roll-call clear, Bay Billy's name was read, and then The whole line answered "Here!"

THE OLD VETERAN.

BY BAYARD TAYLOR.

An old and crippled veteran to the War Department came, He sought the Chief who led him on many a field of fame-- The Chief who shouted "Forward!" where'er his banner rose, And bore its stars in triumph behind the flying foes.

"Have you forgotten, General," the battered soldier cried, "The days of eighteen hundred twelve, when I was at your side?

Have you forgotten Johnson, who fought at Lundy's Lane?

'Tis true I'm old and pensioned, but I want to fight again."

"Have I forgotten?" said the Chief: "my brave old soldier, no!

And here's the hand I gave you then, and let it tell you so; But you have done your share, my friend; you're crippled, old, and gray, And we have need of younger arms and fresher blood to-day."

"But, General," cried the veteran, a flush upon his brow, "The very men who fought with us, they say, are traitors now; They've torn the flag of Lundy's Lane, our old red, white and blue, And while a drop of blood is left, I'll show that drop is true."

"I'm not so weak but I can strike, and I've a good old gun, To get the range of traitors' hearts, and p.r.i.c.k them one by one.

Your Minie rifles and such arms, it ain't worth while to try; I couldn't get the hang o' them, but I'll keep my powder dry"

"G.o.d bless you, comrade!" said the Chief,--"G.o.d bless your loyal heart!

But younger men are in the field, and claim to have a part; They'll plant our sacred banner firm, in each rebellious town, And woe, henceforth, to any hand that dares to pull it down!"

"But, General!"--still persisting, the weeping veteran cried, "I'm young enough to follow, so long as you're my guide; And some you know, must bite the dust, and that, at least can I; So give the young ones place to fight, but me a place to die!"

"If they should fire on Pickens, let the colonel in command Put me upon the ramparts with the flag-staff in my hand: No odds how hot the cannon-smoke, or how the sh.e.l.l may fly, I'll hold the Stars and Stripes aloft, and hold them till I die!"

"I'm ready, General; so you let a post to me be given, Where Washington can look at me, as he looks down from Heaven, And say to Putnam at his side, or, may be, General Wayne,-- 'There stands old Billy Johnson, who fought at Lundy's Lane!'"

"And when the fight is raging hot, before the traitors fly, When sh.e.l.l and ball are screeching, and bursting in the sky, If any shot should pierce through me, and lay me on my face, My soul would go to Washington's, and not to Arnold's place!"

SANTA CLAUS.

BY ALFRED H. MILES.

The bells were ringing their cheerful chimes In the old grey belfry tow'r, The choir were singing their carols betimes In the wintry midnight hour, The waits were playing with eerie drawl "The mistletoe hung in the castle hall,"

And the old policeman was stomping his feet As he quiver'd and shiver'd along on his beat;

The snow was falling as fast as it could O'er city and hamlet, forest and wood, And Jack Frost, busy with might and main, Was sketching away at each window-pane;

Father Christinas was travelling fast, Mid the fall of the snow and the howl of the blast, With millions of turkeys for millions to taste, And millions of puddings all tied to his waist, And millions of mince-pies that scented the air, To cover the country with Christmas fare,--

When over the hills, from far away, Came Santa Claus with the dawn of day; He rode on a cycle, as seasons do, With Christmas behind him a-tandem too; His pockets were bigger than sacks from the mill-- The Soho Bazaar would not one of them fill, And the Lowther Arcade and the good things that stock it Would travel with ease in his tiniest pocket.

And these were all full of delights and surprises For gifts and rewards and for presents and prizes.

Little knick-knackeries, beautiful toys For mas and papas and for girls and for boys There were dolls of all sorts, there were dolls of all sizes, In comical costumes and funny disguises,-- Dolls of all countries and dolls of all climes, Dolls of all ages and dolls of all times; Soldier dolls, sailor dolls, red, white and blue; Khaki dolls, darkie dolls, trusty and true; Curio Chinese and quaint little j.a.ps, Nid-nodding at nothing, the queer little chaps; Bigger dolls, n.i.g.g.e.r dolls woolly and black, With never a coat or a shirt to their back.

Dolls made of china and dolls made of wood, Dutch dolls and such dolls, and all of them good; Dolls of fat features, and dolls with more pointed ones, Dolls that were rigid and dolls that were jointed ones, Dolls made of sawdust and dolls made of wax, Dolls that go "bye-bye" when laid on their backs, Dolls that are silent when n.o.body teases them, Dolls that will cry when one pinches or squeezes them; Dolls with fair faces and eyes bright of hue, The black and the brunette, the blond and the blue; Bride dolls and bridegrooms, the meekest of spouses; And hundreds and thousands of pretty dolls' houses.

And as for the furniture--think for a day He brought all you'll think of and all I could say!

And then there were playthings and puzzles and games.

With all kinds of objects and all sorts of names,-- Musical instruments, boxes and gla.s.ses, And fiddles and faddles of various cla.s.ses; Mandolins ready for fingers and thumbs, And banjos and tambourines, trumpets and drums.

Noah's arks, animals, reptiles and mammals, Mammoths and crocodiles, cobras and camels; Lions and tigers as tame as a cat, Eagles and vultures as blind as a bat; Bears upon bear-poles and monkeys on sticks, Foxes in farmyards at mischievous tricks; Monkeys on dogs too, and dogs too on bicycles, Clumsy old elephants triking on tricycles; Horses on rockers and horses on wheels, But never a one that could show you his heels.

There were tops for the whip, there were tops for the string, There were tops that would hum, there were tops that would sing; There were hoops made of iron and hoops made of wood, And hoop-sticks to match them, as strong and as good; There were books full of pictures and books full of rhymes, There were songs for the seasons and tales for the times; Pen-knives and pen-wipers, pencils and slates, Wheelers and rockers and rollers and skates; Bags full of marbles and boxes of bricks, And bundles and bundles of canes and of sticks.