THE FIGHT AT LOOKOUT.

HERE, sit ye down 'longside of me: I'm getting old and gray; But something in the paper, boy, has riled my blood to-day. To steal a purse is mean enough, the most of men agree; But stealing reputation seems a meaner thing to me.

A letter in "The Herald 99 says some generals allow That there wa'n't no fight where Lookout rears aloft its shaggy brow;

But this coat-sleeve swinging empty here beside me, boy, to-day

Tells a mighty different story in a mighty different way.

When sunbeams flashed o'er Mission Ridge that bright November morn,

The misty cap on Lookout's crest gave tokens of the storm; For grim King Death had draped the mount in grayish, smoky shrouds,

Its craggy peaks were lost to eight above the fleecy clouds.

Just at the mountain's rocky base we formed in serried lines, While lightning with its jagged edge played on us from the pines;

The mission ours to storm the pits 'neath Lookout's crest that lay:

We, stormed the very "gates of hell" with Fighting Joe that day.

The mountain seemed to vomit flames; the boom of heavy

guns

Played bass to Dixie's music, while a treble played the

drums;

The eagles, waking from their sleep, looked down upon the

stars

Slow climbing up the mountain's side with morning's broken bars.

We kept our eyes upon the flag that upward led the way, Until we lost it in the smoke on Lookout's side that day; And then like demons loosed from hell we clambered up the

crag, "Excelsior

our motto, and our mission "Save the flag."

In answer to the rebel yell we gave a ringing cheer;

We left the rifle-pits behind, the crest loomed upward

near;

A light wind playing 'long the peaks just lifted Death's gray shroud;

We caught a gleam of silver stars just breaking through the cloud.

A shattered arm hung at my side that day on Lookout's

crag.

And yet I'd give the other now to save the dear old flag.

The regimental roll when called on Lookout's crest that

night

Was more than doubled by the roll Death called in realms

of light.

Just as the sun sank slowly down behind the mountain's crest,

When mountain-peaks gave back the fire that flamed along the west,

Came

66

Swift riding down along the ridge upon a charger white Fighting Joe," the hero now of Lookout's famous fight.

He swung his cap as tears of joy slow trickled down his cheek,

And as our cheering died away the general tried to speak. He said, " Boys, I'll court-martial you - yes, every man that's here:

I said to take the rifle-pits," we stopped him with a

cheer,

"I said to take the rifle-pits upon the mountain's edge, And I'll court-martial you because

ridge!"

because you took the

Then such a laugh as swept the ridge where late King Death

had strode!

And such a cheer as rent the skies, as down our lines he

rode!

I'm getting old and feeble: I've not long to live, I know; But there was a fight at Lookout—I was there with Fighting

Joe.

So them generals in "The Herald," they may reckon and allow

That there wa'n't no fight at Lookout on the mountain's shaggy brow;

But this empty coat-sleeve swinging here beside me, boy, to-day

Tells a mighty different story in a mighty different way.

R. L. CARY, JUN.

THE WELL-DIGGER.

COME, listen all, while I relate
What recently befell

Unto a farmer down in Maine,
While digging of a well.

Full many a yard he dug and delved,
And still he dug in vain :
"Alack!" quoth he, "e'en water seems
Prohibited in Maine!"

And still he dug and delved away,

And still the well was dry:
The only water to be found

Was in the farmer's eye.

For, by the breaking of the bank
That tumbled from the station,
All suddenly his hopes were dashed
Of future liquidation.

And now his sands were running fast,
And he had died, no doubt.

But that just when the earth caved in
He happened to be out!

"Ah, ha! I have a happy thought!"
Exclaimed this wicked man:

"To dig away this cursed well,
I see a pretty plan.

"I'll hide me straight; and when my wife
And eke the neighbors know
What's happened to the digging here,
They'll think that I'm below;

"And so, to save my precious life,
They'll dig the well, no doubt,
E'en deeper than it was at first,
Before they find me out!"

And so he hid him in the barn
Through all the hungry day,
To bide the digging of his well
In this deceitful way.

But list what grief and shame befell
The false, ungrateful man,
The while he slyly watched to see
The working of his plan.

The neighbors all, with one accord,

Unto each other said,

"With such a weight of earth above,

The man is surely dead!"

And the wife, with pious care,

All needless cost to save,

Said, "Since the Lord has willed it,
E'en let it be his grave!"

JOHN G. SAXE.

BEHIND TIME.

A RAILROAD train was rushing along at almost lightning speed. A curve was just ahead, beyond which was a station, at which the cars usually passed each other. The conductor was late, so late that the period during which the down train was to wait had nearly elapsed; but he hoped yet to pass the curve safely. Suddenly a locomotive dashed into sight right ahead. In an instant there was a collision. A shriek, a shock, and fifty souls were in eternity; and all because an engineer had been behind time.

A great battle was going on.. Column after column had been precipitated for eight mortal hours on the enemy posted along the ridge of a hill. The summer sun was sinking to the west; re-enforcements for the obstinate defenders were already in sight; it was necessary to carry the position with one final charge, or every thing would be lost.

A powerful corps had been summoned from across the country, and if it came up in season all would yet be well. The great conqueror, confident in its arrival, forined his reserve into an attacking column, and ordered them to charge the enemy. The whole world knows the result. Grouchy failed to appear; the imperial guard was beaten back; Waterloo was lost. Napoleon died a prisoner at St. Helena because one of his marshals was behind time.

A leading firm in commercial circles had long struggled against bankruptcy. As it had enormous assets in California, it expected remittances by a certain day; and, if the sums promised arrived, its credit, its honor, and its future prosperity would be preserved. But week after week elapsed without bringing the gold.

At last came the fatal day on which the firm had bills maturing to enormous amounts. The steamer was telegraphed at daybreak; but it was found, on inquiry, that she brought no funds, and the house failed. The next arrival brought nearly half a million to the insolvents, but it was too late; they were ruined because their agent, in remitting, had been behind time.

A condemned man was led out for execution. He had taken human life, but under circumstances of the greatest provocation, and public sympathy was active in his behalf. Thousands had signed petitions for a reprieve: a favorable answer had been expected the night before; and, though it had not come, even the sheriff felt confident that it would yet arrive in season.

Thus the morning passed without the appearance of the inessenger. The last moment was up. The prisoner took his place on the drop, the cap was drawn over his eyes, the bolt was drawn, and a lifeless body swung revolving in the wind.

Just at that moment a horseman came into sight, galloping down hill, his steed covered with foam. He carried a packet in his right hand, which he waved rapidly to the crowd. He was the express rider with the reprieve. But