February Twenty-Seventh

We follow where the Swamp Fox guides, We leave the swamp and cypress-tree, Our spurs are in our coursers' sides,

And ready for the strife are we.

The Tory camp is now in sight,

And there he cowers within his den; He hears our shouts, he dreads the fight, He fears, and flies from Marion's men.

WILLIAM GILMORE SIMMS

Francis Marion dies, 1795

Battle of Moore's Creek Bridge, N. C., 1776

February Twenty-Eightb

The war began, the war went on this politicians' conspiracy, this slaveholders' rebellion, as it was variously called by those who sought its source, now in the disappointed ambition of the Southern leaders, now in the desperate determination of a slaveholding oligarchy to perpetuate their power, and to secure forever their proprietorship in their "human chattels.” On this theory the mass of the Southern people were but puppets in the hands of political wirepullers, or blind followers of hectoring "patricians." To those who know the Southern people nothing can be more absurd; to those who know their personal independence, to those who know the deep interest which they have always taken in politics, the keen intelligence with which they have always followed the questions of the day.

BASIL L. GILDERSLEEVE

February Twenty-Ninth

THE LAND WHERE WE WERE DREAMING Fair were our nation's visions, and as grand As ever floated out of fancy-land; Children were we in simple faith,

But god-like children, whom nor death, Nor threat of danger drove from honor's path—

In the land where we were dreaming!

A figure came among us as we slept—
At first he knelt, then slowly rose and wept;
Then gathering up a thousand spears,
He swept across the fields of Mars,

Then bowed farewell, and walked behind the stars,

From the land where we were dreaming!

As wakes the soldier when the alarum calls-
As wakes the mother when her infant falls-
As starts the traveler when around
His sleepy couch the fire-bells sound-
So woke our nation with a single bound—
In the land where we were dreaming!

DANIEL BEDINGER LUCAS

Darch

I hear the bluebird's quaint soliloquy,-
A hesitating note upon the breeze,

Blown faintly from the tops of distant trees,
As though he were not sure that Spring is nigh,
But fed his hopes with bursts of melody.
I would I had a spirit-harp to seize
The bolder tenor of his rhapsodies

When apple-blossoms swing against the sky.
On every dark or blust'ring wintry day
That airy harp the bluebird's lilt should play;
And as I held my sighs and paused to hear,
The wand'ring message, with its full-fed cheer
And ripe contentment, to my life should bring
The essence and fruition of the Spring.

DANSKE DANDRIDGE