wild and indistinct murmur. Tramp, tramp, tramp, the air is filled with the sound, and then distinct voices break upon the air, and the clatter is borne upon the breeze.

The boy turns to his mother, and asks her who has gained the day. Every heart feels vividly that the battle is now over, that the account of blood is near its close, that the appeal to the God of battles has been made. The mother turns her tearful eyes to the south; she cannot answer the question. The old man, awakened from a reverie, turns suddenly to the maiden, and clasps her arm with his trembling hands. His lips move, but his tongue is unable to syllable a sound. He flings a trembling hand southward, and speaks his question with the gesture of age. The battle-the battle-how goes the battle? As he makes the gesture, the figure of a soldier is seen rushing from the mist in the valley below; he comes speeding round the bend of the road, he ascends the hill, but his steps totter and he staggers to and fro like a drunken man. He bears a burden on his shoulders -is it the plunder of the fight? is it the spcil gathered from the ranks of the dead? No!-no! He bears an aged man on his shoulders.

The

Both are clad in the blue hunting-shirt, torn and tattered and stained with blood, it is true, but still you can recognize the uniform of the Revolution. tottering soldier nears the group, he lays the aged veteran down by the roadside, and then looks around with a ghastly face and a rolling eye. There is blood dripping from his attire, his face is begrimed with powder and spotted with crimson drops. He glances wildly around, and then, kneeling on the sod, he takes the hand of the aged man in his own, and raises his head upon his knee.

The battle the battle-how goes the battle? The

group cluster around as they ask the question. The young Continental makes no reply, but, gazing upon the face of the dying veteran, wipes the beaded drops of blood from his forehead.

"Comrade!" shrieks the veteran, "raise me on my feet; and wipe the blood from my eyes. I would see him once again." He is raised upon his feet, and the blood is wiped from his eyes. "I see it is he—it is Washington! Yonder-yonder I see his sword-and Anthony Wayne-raise me higher, comrade-all is getting dark-I would see-Mad Anthony! Lift me, comrade-higher, higher-I see him-I see Mad Anthony! Wipe the blood from my eyes, comrade, for it darkens my sight; it is dark-it is dark!"

And the young soldier held in his arms a lifeless corpse. The old veteran was dead. He had fought his last fight, fired his last shot, shouted the name of Mad Anthony for the last time; and yet his withered hand clenched, with the tightness of death, the broken bayonet.

As

The battle the battle-how goes the battle? the thrilling question again rung in his ears, the young Continental turned to the group, smiled ghastly, and then flung his wounded arm to the south.

"Lost!" he shrieked, and rushed on his way like one bereft of his senses. He had not gone ten steps, when he bit the dust of the roadside, and lay extended in the face of day, a lifeless corpse.

So they died; the young hero and the aged veteran, children of the Land of Penn! So died thousands of their brethren throughout the Continent-Quebec and Saratoga, Camden and Bunker Hill, to this hour, retain their bones!

Nameless and unhonored, the "Poor Men Heroes" of Pennsylvania sleep the last slumber on every battle-field

of the Revolution. The incident which we have pictured is but a solitary page among ten thousand. In every

spear of the grass that grows on our battle-fields, in every

wild flower that blooms above the dead of the Revolution, you read the quiet heroism of the children of the Land of Penn.-GEORGE LIPPARD.

JOHN AND TIBBIE'S DISPUTE.

JOHN DAVISON and Tibbie, his wife,
Dastin' their tacs ae nicht,

When something startit in the fluir,
And blinkit by their sicht.

Guidwife," quoth John, "did ye see that moose?

Whar sorra was the cat?

"Ow, ow, Guidwife, to think ye've been Sae lang aboot the hoose,

An' no to ken a moose frae a rat!

Yon wasna a rat! 't was a moose."

"I've seen mair mice than you, Guidman-
An' what think ye o' that?

Sae haud your tongue an' sae nae mair-
I tell ye, it was a rat."

* Me haud my tongue for you,

Guidwife!

I'll be mester o' this hoose

I saw't as plain as een could see't,
An' I tell ye, it was a moose!"

"If

you're the mester o' the hoose,

It's I'm the mistress o''t;

An' I ken best what's in the house

Sae I tell ye, it was a rat."

"Weel, weel, Guidwife, gae mak' the brose,
An' ca' it what ye please."

So up she rose, and made the brose,
While John sat toastin' his taes.

They supit, and supit, and supit the brose,
And aye their lips play'd smack,
They supit, and supit, and supit the brose,
Till their lugs began to crack.

"Sic fules we were to fa' oot, Guidwife, Aboot a moose "-"A what?

It's a lee ye tell, an' I say again

It wasua a moose, 't was a rat!"

"Wad ye ca' me a leear to my very face?

My faith, but ye craw croose!

I tell ye, Tib, I never will bear 't

'Twas a moose!"-" "T was a rat!"-" "Twas a moose!"

Wi' her spoon she strack him ower the pow—

"Ye dour auld doit, tak' that—

Gae to your bed, ye canker'd sumph

'Twas a rat!"-" "Twas a moose!"-" "T was a rat!"

She sent the brose caup at his heels,

As he hirpled ben the hoose;

Yet he shoved oot his head as he steekit the door,
A cried, "'T was a moose! 'twas a moose!"

But, when the carle was fast asleep,
She paid him back for that,
And roar'd into his sleepin' lug,

"'Twas a rat! 't was a rat! 't was a rat!”

The de'il be wi' me if I think

It was a beast ava!—

Neist mornin', as she sweepit the fluir,
She faund wee Johnnie's ba'!

A

SOUTHLAND.

PARADISE of sunny skies,
Of everlasting summer-time,
Of song and wing and shining thing,
A burning-hearted passion-clime;
Far warmer than the tropic sun
The tropic hearts he shines upon.

The south wind teems with lovers' dreams,
A soft sweet rapture bathes each sense,
Nature at play the live-long day

Inspires you with her indolence;
For here, that dame hath naught to do
But simply to make love to you.

What worlds of gold her orchards hold, What yellow globes with nectar filled; How sweet the air, the earth how fair, From which such juices were distilled: Nor all the fabled gods of old

Drank such rich wine from cups of gold.