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You did? shake hands.
grim and rough,
I've got some feeling!
but tough.

That warms my heart; for, if I do look

People think a soldier's heart is nought

But, Harry, when the bullets fly, and hot saltpetre flames and smokes,

While whole battalions lie a-field, one's apt to think about his folks.

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And did you seem them-when ? and where? The Old Man—is he hearty yet?

And Mother-does she fade at all? or does she seem to pine and fret

For me? And Sis-has she grown tall? And did you see her friend-you know-that Annie Moss-How this pipe chokes :Where did you see her? Tell me, Hal, a lot of news about 'our folks.'

"You saw them in the church, you say; it's likely, for they're always there;

Not Sunday? No?-a funeral? Who, Harry, how you shake and stare!

All well, you say, and all were out-what ails you, Hal? Is this a hoax?

Why don't you tell me, like a man, what is the matter with our folks ?>"

"I said all well, old comrade-true; I say all well; for He knows best

Who takes the young ones in His arms before the sun goes to the west.

Death deals at random, right and left, and flowers fall as well as oaks;

And so fair Annie blooms no more! and that's the matter with your 'folks.'

"But see, this curl was kept for you; and this white blossom from her breast;

And look-your sister Bessie wrote this letter, telling all the rest. Bear up, old friend!" Nobody speaks; only the old camp

raven croaks,

And soldiers whisper Boys, be still; there's some bad news from Grainger's folks.""

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He turns his back-the only foe that ever saw it on this grief, And, as men will, keeps down the tears kind Nature sends to woe's relief;

Then answers :- "Thank you, Hal, I'll try; but in my throat there's something chokes,

Because, you see, I've thought so long to count her in among 'our folks.'

"I daresay she is happier now; but that I can't help thinking, too,

I might have kept all trouble off, by being tender, kind, and true

But may be not. . . . She's safe up there! and, when God's hands deals other strokes,

She'll stand by Heaven's gate, I know, and wait to welcome in 'our folks.'"

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You see how the drawbridge swings open
When the vessels come in from the bay,
When the New York express comes along, sir!
That bridge must be shut right away!

You see how it's worked by the windlass,
A child, sir, could manage it well,
My brave little chap used to do it,
But that's part of the tale I must tell!

It is two years ago come the autumn,
I shall never forget it, I'm sure;

I was sitting at work in the house here,
And the boy played just outside the door!

You must know, that the wages I'm getting
For the work on the line are not great,
So I picked up a little shoemaking,
And I manage to live at that rate.

I was pounding away on my lapstone,
And singing as blithe as could be!
Keeping time with the tap of my hammer
On the work that I held at my knee.

And Willie, my golden-haired darling,
Was tying a tail on his kite;

His cheeks all aglow with excitement,
And his blue eyes lit up with delight.

When the telegraph bell at the station
Rang out the express on its way;
"All right, father!" shouted my Willie,
"Remember, I'm pointsman to-day!"

I heard the wheel turn at the windlass,
I heard the bridge swing on its way,
And there came a cry from my darling,
A cry, filled my heart with dismay.

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'Help, father! oh help me!" he shouted. I sprang through the door with a scream, His clothes had got caught in the windlass, There he hung o'er the swift, rushing stream.

And there, like a speck in the distance,
I saw the fleet oncoming train;

And the bridge that I thought safely fastened,
Unclosed and swung backward again.

I rushed to my boy, ere I reached him,
He fell in the river below.

I saw his bright curls on the water,
Borne away by the current's swift flow.

I sprang to the edge of the river,
But there was the onrushing train,
And hundreds of lives were in peril,
Till that bridge was refastened again.

I heard a loud shriek just behind me,
I turned, and his mother stood there,
Looking just like a statue of marble,
With her hands clasped in agonized prayer.

Should I leap in the swift-flowing torrent
While the train went headlong to its fate,
Or stop to refasten the drawbridge,
And go to his rescue too late?

I looked at my wife and she whispered,
With choking sobs stopping her breath,

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Do your duty, and Heaven will help you
To save our own darling from death !"

Quick as thought, then, I flew to the windlass,
And fastened the bridge with a crash,
Then just as the train rushed across it,
I leaped in the stream with a splash.

How I fought with the swift-rushing water,
How I battled till hope almost fled,
But just as I thought I had lost him,
Up floated his bright golden head.

How I eagerly seized on his girdle,
As a miser would clutch at his gold,
But the snap of his belt came unfastened,
And the swift stream unloosened my hold.

He sank once again, but I followed,
And caught at his bright clustering hair,
And biting my lip till the blood came,
I swam with the strength of despair!

We had got to a bend of the river,
Where the water leaps down with a dash,
I held my boy tighter than ever,
And steeled all my nerves for the crash.

The foaming and thundering whirlpool
Engulfed us, I struggled for breath,
Then caught on a crag in the current,
Just saved, for a moment, from death!

And there on the bank stood his mother,
And some sailors were flinging a rope,
It reached us at last, and I caught it,
For I knew 'twas our very last hope!

And right up the steep rock they dragged us, I cannot forget, to this day,

How I clung to the rope, while my darling
In my arms like a dead baby lay.

And down on the greensward I laid him
Till the colour came back to his face,
And, oh, how my heart beat with rapture
As I felt his warm, loving embrace !

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THE STROLLERS.

ROBERT REECE.

[Mr. Reece is principally known as a pantomime and burlesque author. His little extravaganza, "Perfect Love," is an elegant specimen of poetic fancy and refined humour. Many charming lyrics, too, have emanated from his pen, and may be found among his various operatic libretti, notably in the English version of the abnormally successful "Les Cloches de Corneville," written in conjunction with Mr. H. B. Farnie. As a punster he would have excited the intense wrath of Dr. Johnson.]

THE little village, all astir,

Has turned out, to a man, to greet them!
And anxious urchins, wide agape,

Run down the leafy lanes to meet them;
The crone who basks her wintry hair
Half hidden in a russet hood,

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Looks up and wisely shakes her head,
And murmurs, "Player folks no good!
The sturdy clay-streaked plowmen pause,
As two by two the strollers pass,
And wonder if the Squire will swear
At folk who "furret up
his grass."

The busybodies of the place

Watch as the bills are posted there,
And know exactly who these are,
And how they've seen them at the Fair.
How, "him, the thin one walking yon-
Him with the lass that moves so slow,
And leads the child with golden hair,
Had played in Lunnon years ago!
And though their faces seem so wan,
Them too, could play the King and Queen,
And look-ah! mortal fine at night!"

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Then slowly wags the lumbering cart
And slowly rises stage and tent,

And through the cracks of yawning planks

Sly youngsters peep in wonderment.

And ere the sun has quite gone down,

The band a fiddle, horn, and drum

Perambulate the lane, and urge

Reluctant villagers to come.

Whilst, ere they play kings, queens, and knaves,

And ere one half the seats are taken,

The company has sallied forth

To buy their humble eggs and bacon.
What if they strut and fume and make
Sad havoc with the text and action
They have their mystery, their fame,

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