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; Frimly upon the furrowed field

The troops stood on parade,
And bravely 'mid the ranks were closed
The gaps the fight had made.

Not half the Twenty-second's men
Were in their place that morn,
And Corporal Dick, who yester-noon
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 faltering 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!"

JACK CHIDDY.-ALEXANDER ANDERSON.

A TRUE INCIDENT OF THE RAIL.

Brave Jack Chiddy! Oh, well you may sneer,
For the name isn't one that sounds nice in the ear;
But a name is a sound,—nothing more,-deeds are best,
And Jack had the soul of a man in his breast.

Now, I heard you say that you're fond of a tale
If it bears upon railway men and the rail.
Well, here is one that will suit you, I know,
Though it happened a good many years ago.

Jack Chiddy, there you are smiling again

At the name, which I own is both common and plain,——
Jack Chiddy, I say, wrought along with his mates,
Year in and year out, on a section of plates.

Simple enough was the work, with no change
But to see that both lines were in gauge and range;
Fasten a key there, and tighten a bolt,

All to keep fast trains from giving a jolt.

Strange when one thinks wliere a hero may rise,
Say at times, in a moment, before our eyes,
Or right from our side ere we know it, and do
The work of a giant and pass from our view.

But the story? you say. Well, I'm coming to that,
Though I wander a little-now, where was I at?
Let me see. Can you catch, shining round and clear,
The mouth of the Breslington tunnel from here?
You see it? Well, right on the bank at the top,
When stacking some blocks, all at once, down the slope
A huge slab of stone from the rest shore its way,
And fell down on the up-line of metals, and lay.
One sharp cry of terror burst forth from us all,
As we saw the huge mass topple over and fall.
We stood as if bound to the spot, dumb of speech,
Reading horror and doubt in the faces of each.

Then one of our mates snatched a glance at his watch,
Gave a start and a look that made each of us catch

At our breath, then a cry, that thrilled our hearts through— "My God! the 'Flying Dutchman' is overdue!"

Hark, straight from over the hill we could hear

A dull, dead sound coming faint to the ear,

Then a short, sharp whistle that told with its blast
That the Dutchman" was into the tunnel at last.

And there on the rail lay that huge mass of stone,
And the "Dutchman" behind coming thundering on;
In a minute or less he would come with a dash,
And a hundred lives would be lost in the crash.

"Now, for your life, Jack!" for Chiddy had flown

Down the bank, and three leaps brought him close to the stone.

Not of his own life, for wife and child's sake,

Thought he, but the hundreds that now were at stake.

"Twas the work of a moment. With terrible strength
And a heave of the shoulder the slab moved at length—
Slipped clear of the rail-when, half-muffled in smoke,
From the mouth of the tunnel the "Dutchman" broke.
There was one sharp whistle, a roar, and a crash
Of wheels ringing clear on the rail, and a flash

Of coiling smoke, and a glitter and gleam

Of iron and steel, and then down fell the steam.

Not a breath could we draw, but stood blank with dismay As the train tore along, making up for delay;

Till at last from us all burst a shout and a cheer,
When we knew that the "Dutchman" had passed and was
clear.

And Chiddy? Ah me! you will pardon these tears,
For he was my mate on the rails many years.
When we found him, one look was enough to reveal
That Jack's life-blood was red on the engine-wheel.
Brave Jack Chiddy! Now you don't sneer

At the name which I own is but harsh to the ear;
But a name is a sound,-nothing more,-deeds are best,
And Jack had the soul of a man in his breast.

AN AWFUL SQUIRT.

A Rockland young man until quite recently was courting a fat girl at the North End and had progressed very favorably with his suit. One evening last week he dressed up in his best clothes, carefully combed his hair, and started out to make his tri-weekly visit to his fair one, who was wait

ing in the parlor with fond expectation in her heart and a cold in her head, superinduced by the fluctuating weather. This was, as you might say, the prologue to the tragedy. It appears, moreover, that the fat girl's father-who is worth many thousand dollars in good, sensible bonds, and as a consequence is an object of the young man's tender regard—had for several nights previous been the victim of some unknown miscreant who had raided on his hen pen with disastrous effect. Sick of such foolishness, he had prepared a ghastly retribution for the fowl villains, and to this end had filled a big garden syringe with about a gallon of ancient beef brine, seasoned with garlic and flavored with asafoetida, and was lying in ambush behind a box, where he could sweep every approach to the 'hennery. The young man, who is pretty well acquainted with the whole family, thought he would surprise his girl by entering the house unexpectedly by the back way. This is the situation:

a is the hennery; b is the old man, and c the syringe; d is the young man lightly turning to thoughts of love as well as the corner of the fence; e is the house itself, painted brown; and ƒ is the fat girl sitting by the piano and singing “Father, dear father, come home;" gggg is the gathering darkness.

Gayly up the back yard the young man comes. Silently in ambush the old man lies. Cheerily the fat girl warbles. Quiet but awful is the syringe. In the uncertain light of early evening the old man sees a figure stealthily drawing near his guarded pen. With bated breath he waits the onslaught. The syringe sounds its dreadful " wh-s-s-h-p," and its deadly contents fly through the air like a wild and mad avenger. A yell that tore the azure robe of night, fairly knocked the fat girl off the piano stool and curdled the old man's blood, followed the discharge, and when the neighbors rushed in, under the impression that the comet had burst

right in the neighborhood, they found the unfortunate young man pawing madly around on the ground, and screaming out awful Mexican words terrible to hear, while the old man hovered over the scene with the syringe in his hands, looking like an animated figure escaped from an allegory. Sympathizing arms bore the young man into the house, after their owners had stopped their nostrils with cotton, and it required the combined efforts of the fat girl and eight friends to bring him to, and it was some hours before he was able to inquire if the meteor hit anybody else when it struck. That night, beneath the darksome shade of a cypress tree, whose thick branches the struggling moonbeams vainly strove to pierce, an old man's tottering form rested upon a spade, and silently viewed a new-made grave. He had just buried the syringe. -Rockland Courier.

BRIER-ROSE.-HJALMAR HJORTHI BOYESEN.

Said Brier-Rose's mother to the naughty Brier-Rose: What will become of you, my child, the Lord Almighty knows.

You will not scrub the kettles, and you will not touch the broom;

You never sit a minute still at spinning-wheel or loom."

Thus grumbled in the morning, and grumbled late at eve, The good-wife as she bustled with pot and tray and sieve; But Brier-Rose, she laughed and she cocked her dainty head: “Why, I shall marry, mother dear," full merrily she said. "You marry; saucy Brier-Rose! The man, he is not found To marry such a worthless wench, these seven leagues around."

But Brier-Rose, she laughed and she trilled a merry lay: "Perhaps he'll come, my mother dear, from eight leagues away."

The good-wife with a "humph" and a sigh forsook the battle, And flung her pots and pails about with much vindictive rattle:

"O Lord, what sin did I commit in youthful days, and wild, That thou hast punished me in age with such a wayward child?"

Up stole the girl on tiptoe, so that none her step could hear, And laughing pressed an airy kiss behind the good-wife's ear.