It's months ago since I was there,

I and a bullet from Fair Oaks.

When you were home, old comrade, say,
Did you see any of our folks?

"You did? Shake hands, - O, ain't I glad; For if I do look grim and rough,

I've got some feelin'

People think

A soldier's heart is mighty tough;
But, Harry, when the bullets fly,

And hot saltpetre flames and smokes,
While whole battalions lie afield,
One's apt to think about his folks. "

"And so you saw 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

yet say;

It's likely, for they're always there.
Not Sunday? no? A funeral? Who?
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,
The axe-man Death deals 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.

"See, this long curl was kept for you; And this white blossom from her breast;

And here your sister Bessie wrote

A letter, telling all the rest.

Bear up, old friend.”

Only the old camp-raven croaks,

And soldiers whisper:

Nobody speaks;

"Boys, be still;

There's some bad news from Granger's folks."

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 he:

"Ah, 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 s'pose she must be happy now,
But still I will keep thinking too,
I could have kept all trouble off

By being tender, kind, and true.
But maybe not. She's safe up there,
And when the Hand deals other strokes,
She'll stand by Heaven's gate I know,

And wait to welcome in our folks."

Ethel Lynn.

IT

THE BLACK HORSE AND HIS RIDER.

T was the 7th of October, 1777. Horatio Gates stood before his tent, gazing steadfastly upon the two armies now arrayed in order of battle. It was a clear, bracing day, mellow with the richness of autumn. The sky was cloudless; the foliage of the woods scarce tinged with purple and gold; the buckwheat in yonder fields frostened into snowy ripeness. But the tread of legions shook the ground; from every bush shot the glimmer of the rifle-barrel; on every hillside blazed the sharpened bayonet. Gates was sad and thoughtful, as he watched the evolutions of the two armies. But all at once a smoke arose, a thunder shook the ground, and a chorus of shouts and groans yelled along the darkened air. The play of death had begun. The two flags - this of the stars, that of the red cross - tossed amid the smoke of battle, while the sky was clouded with leaden folds, and the earth throbbed with the pulsations of a mighty heart.

Suddenly Gates and his officers were startled. Along the height on which they stood came a rider,

upon a black horse, rushing toward the distant battle. There was something in the appearance of this horse and his rider that struck them with surprise Look! he draws his sword; the sharp blade quivers through the air; he points to the distant battle, and lo! he is gone; gone through those clouds, while his shout echoes over the plains. Wherever the fight is thickest, there, through intervals of cannon-smoke, you may see riding madly forward that strange soldier, mounted on his steed black as death. Look at him, as with face red with British blood he waves his sword and shouts to his legions. Now you may see him fighting in that cannon's glare, and the next moment he is away off yonder, leading the forlorn hope up that steep cliff. Is it not a magnificent sight, to see that strange soldier and that noble black horse dashing, like a meteor, down the long columns of battle?

Let us look for a moment into those clouds of battle. Over this thick hedge bursts a band of American militiamen, their rude farmer coats stained with blood, while scattering their arms by the way, they flee before that company of red-coat hirelings, who come rushing forward, their solid front of bayonets gleaming in the battle light. In this moment of their flight, a horse comes crashing over the plains. The unknown rider reins his steed back on his haunches, right in the path of these broad-shouldered militiamen. "Now, cowards! advance another step and I'll strike you to the heart!" shouts the unknown, extending a pistol in either hand. "What! are you Americans, men, and fly before British soldiers? Back again, and face them once more, or I myself will ride you down." This appeal was not without its effect. Their leader

turns, his comrades, as if by one impulse, follow his example. In one line, but thirty men in all, they confront thirty sharp bayonets. The British advance. "Now upon the rebels, charge!" shouts the red-coat officer. They spring forward at the same bound. Look! their bayonets almost touch the muzzles of their rifles. At this moment the voice of the unknown rider was heard: "Now let them have it! Fire!" A sound is heard, a smoke is seen, twenty Britons are down, some writhing in death, some crawling along the soil, and some speechless as stone. The remaining ten start back. "Club your rifles and charge them home!" shouts the unknown. That black horse springs forward, followed by the militiamen. Then at confused conflict - a cry for quarter, and a vision of twenty farmers grouped around the rider of the black horse, greeting him with cheers.

Wherever that black followed victory. At sun, the crisis of the yonder, on Bemus's

Thus it was all the day long. horse and his rider went, there last, toward the setting of the conflict came. That fortress Heights, must be won, or the American cause is lost! That cliff is too steep that death is too certain. The officers cannot persuade the men to advance. The Americans have lost the field. Even Morgan, that iron man among iron men, leans on his rifle and despairs of the field. But look yonder! In this moment, when all is dismay and horror, here crashing on, comes the black horse and his rider. That rider bends upon his steed, his frenzied face covered with sweat and dust and blood; he lays his hand upon that bold rifleman's shoulder, and as though living fire had been poured into his veins, he seizes his rifle and starts to