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The Sergeant heard the shrill hurrahs,
Where he behind in step was keeping;
But glancing down beside the road

He saw a little maid sit weeping. "And how is this?" he gruffly said,

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A moment pausing to regard her; Why weepest thou, my little chit?"

And then she only cried the harder. "And how is this, my little chit,"

The sturdy trooper straight repeated, "When all the village cheers us on,

That you, in tears, apart are seated?
"We march two hundred thousand strong,
And that's a sight, my baby beauty,
To quicken silence into song,

And glorify the soldier's duty." "It's very, very grand, I know,"

The little maid gave soft replying; "And Father, Mother, Brother, too,

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All say Hurrah' while I am crying; "But think, O Mr. Soldier, think

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How many little sisters' brothers Are going all away to fight;

And may be killed, as well as others."

Why, bless thee, child," the Sergeant said,
His brawny hand her curls caressing,

""Tis left for little ones like you

To find that war's not all a blessing."

And "bless thee," once again he cried,

Then cleared his throat and looked indignant, And marched away with wrinkled brow To stop the struggling tear benignant.

And still the ringing shouts went up

From doorway, thatch, and fields of tillage; The pall behind the standard seen

By one alone, of all the village,

The oak and cedar bend and writhe

When roars the wind through gap and braken;

But 'tis the tenderest reed of all

That trembles first when earth is shaken.

"FALL IN."

SEE, see! yon gleaming line of light,
The enemy's bayonets bristle bright;
O boys, there'll be a fight to-night,
Fall in!

Under the woods of frozen larch,
Under the night sky's icy arch,
It ends at last, the dreadful march,
Fall in!

Fall in! No bivouac to-night;

Beneath the stars so still and bright,
The glistening bayonets glitter white;
Fall in!

Fall in! We're hungry, bruised and torn;
With snow and rain beaten and worn,
Yet ready for duty" we've proudly sworn;
Fall in!

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A second for dreams! Under our eyes,
O see, how softly they seem to rise,
The hills of home and her summer skies!
Fall in!

One sigh for home, for the fair face pressed
Close to the heart, 'neath the rugged vest,
The face of the one we love the best.

Fall in!

O say, for a flash shall the brown face pale,
The quick, young nerves in their warm life quail,
To meet the thud of leaden hail ?

Fall in!

The storm of shells, the bullet's whir,

The clash of sabre no fear can stir; We fight for freedom, for home, for her! Fall in!

Ever with steady step we go,

With rifles ready in serried row,

Into the face of the insolent foe,

Fall in!

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Our hearts up-leap in passionate pain,
O see, they fall, our heroic slain,
The enemy's masses charge and gain!
Fall in!

Fall in the eager bugles beat;

Fall in March on with prescient feet,
Smite low the foe, where the armies meet;
Fall in!

To front! Its ranks are red and thin,
The victor flaunts his banner of sin;
O comrades, forward! to die or win,

Fall in!

MARY CLEMMER.

MYSTERIOUS RAPPINGS.

LATE one evening I was sitting, gloomy shadows round me flitting

Mrs. Partington, a-knitting, occupied the grate before; Suddenly I heard a patter, a slight and very trifling matter, As if it were a thieving rat or mouse within my closet

door;

A thieving and mischievous rat or mouse within my closet

door

Only this, and nothing more.

Then all dreaminess forsook me; rising up, I straightway shook me,

A light from off the table took, and swift the rat's destruc tion swore.

Mrs. P. smiled approbation on my prompt determination, And without more hesitation, oped I wide the closet door; Boldly, without hesitation, opened wide the closet door; Darkness there, and nothing more.

As upon the sound I pondered, what the deuce it was I wondered;

Could it be my ear had blundered, as at times it had before? But scarce again was I reseated, ere I heard the sound re

peated,

The same dull patter that had greeted me from out the closet door;

The same dull patter that had greeted me from out the closet door;

A gentle patter, nothing more.

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Then my rage arose unbounded What," cried I, "is this confounded

Noise with which my ear is wounded-noise I've never heard before ?

If 'tis presage dread of evil, if 'tis made by ghost or devil, I call on ye to be more civil-stop that knocking at the door!'

Stop that strange, mysterious knocking there, within my closet door;

Grant me this, if nothing more."

Once again I seized the candle, rudely grasped the latchet's

handle,

Savage as a Goth or Vandal, that kicked up rumpuses of

yore

"What the dickins is the matter," said I, "to produce this patter ?"

To Mrs. P., and looked straight at her. “I don't know,"

said she, 66

I'm shore;

Lest it be a pesky rat, or something, I don't know, I'm shore."

This she said, and nothing more.

Still the noise kept on unceasing; evidently 'twas increasing; Like a cart-wheel wanting greasing, wore it on my nerves full sore;

Patter, patter, patter, patter the rain the while made noisy clatter,

My teeth with boding ill did chatter, as when I'm troubled by a bore

Some prosing, dull, and dismal fellow, coming in but just to bore;

Only this, and nothing more.

All night long it kept on tapping; vain I laid myself for

napping,

Calling sleep my sense to wrap in darkness till the night was o'er;

A dismal candle, dimly burning, watched me as I laid there turning,

In desperation wildly yearning that sleep would visit me

once more;

Sleep, refreshing sleep, did I most urgently implore;

This I wished, and nothing more.

With the day I rose next morning, and, all idle error scorning,

Went to finding out the warning that annoyed me so before; When straightway, to my consternation, daylight made the revelation

Of a scene of devastation that annoyed me very sore,
Such a scene of devastation as annoyed me very sore;

This it was, and nothing more: —

The rotten roof had taken leaking, and the rain, a passage

seeking,

Through the murky darkness sneaking, found my hat-box on the floor:

There, exposed to dire disaster, lay my bran-new Sunday

castor,

And its hapless, luckless master ne'er shall see its beauties

more

Ne'er shall see its glossy beauty, that his glory was before; It is gone, for evermore!

B. P. SHILLABER.

KELLY'S FERRY.

HAVE you read in any book, heard anybody tell,
Of the gallant Third Ohio, Lieutenant-Colonel Bell,
So like in shaggy ruggedness a mountain full of lairs,
That when they cheered you never knew the Buckeye from
the bears!

Ah! they loved the River Danger, as Satan loves to sin;
Just drew their belts another hole, and then they waded in-
Waist deep, chin deep the fellows went, nor drew a doubt-
ing breath;

No halting for an order, nor touch of hat to death!

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"Go in!" and "Third Ohio!" their battle-cry and faith.

Their talk was rough as boulders are, and when they

named the flag,

They christened it "Old Glory," or just "That blessed rag;"

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