Could I (the mem'ry is to blame)
Tell you the gentle owner's name;
And here's a faded rose bouquet

Pinned to a crumpled note signed "May."

A woman would, no doubt, shed tears
O'er treasures of the long-dead years,
But being just a heartless man,
I only o'er them lightly scan.
You ask me, why I keep them; well,
That I, indeed, could hardly tell-
But, lo, the box! for on my life,
Here comes my bonny little wife!

BIVOUAC BY THE RAPPAHANNOCK.

GRACE DUFFIE ROE.

UNSET at last, and the evening came

SU

A Sister of Mercy in garments gray—
Touching with fingers cool as the rain
The fevered turf where the wounded lay.

The rippling tide of the river near

Was dappled with crimson short hours ago, And minies screamed in each soldier's ear The menacing taunts of his foe.

But now from each shore of the swift stream

The bivouac fires, through the dusk and the damp, On the arm of the river stretched between,

Seemed each to signal the other's camp.

For the gray-hued flower of Southern pride
Flecked one green shore with its silvery dots,
While the low hills on the other side

Were blue with the North's forget-me-nots.

So near were they that each sentry's call
Was heard like an echo from camp to camp,
As with guns hugged close, at even-fall,

The boys sought rest from the fight and tramp.

But soon, from the Southern slope, a song
From a homesick trooper rang loud and free,
And praise was sounded the line along
ToThe Girl I Left Behind Me."

And scarce had the echoes died away

When from Northern hill came the measures true
Of our "Starry Banner," proud and gay,
Sung with a will by the boys in blue.

Then with "Hail Columbia's" stirring strain,
And "Yankee Doodle's" tinkling numbers,
The weariest feet caught time again

And stragglers roused from out their slumbers.

While Confed'rate yells and Yankee cheers
Met over the waves like a tempest's frown;
And out on the tide rolled bitter jeers

That Hate, in the robes of song, swept down.

Then "Maryland," from the Southern hill,
Came over the Rappahannock river.
How that noble song made pulses thrill
And full throats ache and eyelids quiver!

So on, till 'mid loud battle-cry,

And patriot fires by music kindled, The air of "Dixie " rose on high,

And cheers and jeers again were mingled.

Then all was hushed, till sweet and clear
A bugle's golden lips were sounding

The song to the loyal heart most dear,

That warms the blood and sends it bounding.

It stole down over the tented field

Till lips could pray that before made moan;
It touched the hearts that would break, not yield,
With the tender notes of "Home, Sweet Home."

Band after band from the Northern side

Lifted its glorious praise on high,
And lo! the foeman across the tide
Joined in the song with rapturous cry;

Till up and down from the wooded slopes
The great Te Deum rang loud and clear;
And up from the two great armies' throats
Rose shouts for the Angel of Peace to hear.

Then all was still. But across the stream

The bivouac fires--thro' the dusk and the damp-
On the arm of the river stretched between,
Still waved and signaled each other's camp.

DANIEL O'CONNELL'S HUMOR.

BIDDY MORIARTY was a virago of the most abusive type, who

kept a huckster's shop on the quay of Dublin, and O'Connell had declared that, in a tongue tilt, he would drive this mistress and mother of epithet completely into confusion and defeat. So, commencing the attack, he said: "What's the price of this walking-stick, Mrs. What's-your-name ?"

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Moriarty, sir, is my name, and a good name it is, and what have you to say agin it? and one and sixpence is the price of this stick, troth, 'tis chape as dirt, so it is."

“One and sixpence for a walking-stick! Whew! Why, you are no better than an impostor to ask eighteenpence for what cost you twopence."

66

Twopence your grandmother!" replied Biddy.

"Do you

mane to say it is cheatin' the people I am? Impostor, indeed!" "Ay, impostor! and it is that I call you to your teeth," rejoined O'Connell.

"Come, cut your stick, you cantankerous jackanapes."

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Keep a civil tongue in your head, you old diagonal," answered O'Connell, calmly.

Mrs. Moriarty grew angry.

"Don't be in a passion, my old radius; anger will only wrinkle your beauty."

A volley of strong language followed.

"Easy now, easy now," cried O'Connell, with imperturbable good-humor. "Don't choke yourself with fine language, you old parallelogram."

"What's that you call me, you murderin' villain ?" roared Moriarty, stung with fury.

"I call you," answered O'Connell," a parallelogram, and a Dublin judge and jury will find it's no libel to call you so."

In vain the woman protested her innocence.

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Oh, not you, indeed!" retorted O'Connell; "why, I suppose you deny that you keep a hypothenuse in your house."

"It's a lie for you; I never had such a thing in my house, you swindlin' thief!"

"Ah! you can't deny the charge, you miserable submultiple of a duplicate ratio.”

"You saucy tinker's apprentice, if you don't cease, I'll—” but here she gasped for breath, while O'Connell proceeded :

"While I've a tongue I'll abuse you, you most inimitable periphery. Look at her, boys, where she stands, a convicted perpendicular in petticoats; there she trembles with guilt down to the extremities of her corollaries. Ah! you're found out, you rectilinear antecedent and equiangular old hag, you porter swiping similitude of the bisection of a vortex.

But this last was too much. Overwhelmed with this torrent of language, the old woman burst into tears beneath these disgraceful impeachments of her fair fame.

AN IDYL.

I

C. G. BUCK.

SAW her first on a day in spring,

By the side of a stream, as I fished along, And loitered to hear the robins sing,

And guessed at the secret they told in song.

The apple-blossoms, so white and red,

Were mirrored beneath in the streamlet's flow;

And the sky was blue far overhead,

And far in the depths of the brook below.

I lay half hid by a mossy stone

And looked in the water for flower and sky.

I heard a step-I was not alone :

And a vision of loveliness met my eye.

I saw her come to the other side,

And the apple-blossoms were not more fair; She stooped to gaze in the sunlit tide,

1

And her eyes met mine in the water there.

She stopped in timid and mute surprise,

And that look might have lasted till now, I ween;

But modestly dropping her dove-like eyes,

She turned her away to the meadow green.

I stood in wonder and rapture lost

At her slender form and her step so free,

At her raven locks by the breezes tossed,

As she kicked up her heels in the air for glee.

The apple-blossoms are withered now,

But the sky, and the meadow, and stream are there;

And whenever I wander that way I vow

That some day I'll buy me that little black mare.