And still she seemed to linger as if of chiding fearful
Like one unused to kindness; and then her eyes, still tearful,
Sought mine with look so anxious, so imploring, and so sad,
I could not have denied her the last hard-tack I had.
'Come in, my child,' said I; 'come in from out the rain;'
And something chill came o'er me that felt, Bob, like a pain.
She came up to the hearth side, and took the proffered
seat,
And held up to the fire her poor, half-frozen feet;
For they were bare and shoeless, and blue with pinching cold,
And like her dress all spattered with yellow, clayey mold; Her gown was old and tattered, and vainly lengthened out; With odds and ends all different, and patched and darned
An old and faded kerchief covered her unkempt hair, Which would have glowed with beauty if smoothed and dressed with care;
Her eye was of that gentle blue which artists love to paint,
In ideal picture showing some sorrow-stricken saint.
In fact, her gentle manners and timid modest ways
All seemed to tell that she had known more bright and better days.
When by the blazing fire she'd warmed her scant-clad form, I asked her what had brought her forth in such a driving storm;
'I came,' she answered, blushing and hanging down her head, 'I came to see if I, sir, could get a little bread;
And oh! I can not tell you how much I hate to beg,
But poor mamma is starving and Tom has lost his leg;
He lost his leg at Dallas-be was a soldier then;
They took our boys to battle, as well as all the men.
We all did what we could, sir, and tried to win the fight,
Gave all we had to country; we thought 'twas doing right.
My father died a soldier, a rebel soldier, too;
And that is why I feared, sir, to ask for bread of you;
But we are all so hungry, we've neither bread nor meat;
For two long days we've fasted, with not a thing to eat;
We used to have a plenty, sir, with horses, too, to ride,
A happy home with servants and all we wished beside;
But now we've nothing left, sir, they all went one by one;
Our dear old home we lost it, and now all else has gone.
We had to sell our dresses for anything they'd bring,
Last week we had to sell dear mamma's wedding ring.'
'Tis long since you've seen tears, Bob, on my tough, hard-
ened cheek;
But then my eyes ran over, nor did I think it weak.
Could you have heard her story, so sadly told, I know
You'd weakened on your manhood,-grown womanish 'like
Joe.'
Ere she came I was hungry; I could have gnawed a bone;
But that was now all over, my appetite was gone.
Just then my sable Dinah began to fret and scold,
And wondered why de massa done leave dat supper cold!'
So out I led the little one to the supper table where
There lay in loose profusion the usual army fare;
I sat her down beside it, tucked in the warmest seat,
And, Bob, it did my heart good to see the poor child eat.
The coffee, ham, and corn cakes all vanished past recall;
I wondered where a child so small found room to stow it all.
Of this the child seemed conscious, and said: 'Sir, if I could
I'd eat less; but I'm so hungry and this is all so good!'
So when her meal was finished, she drew back in her chair,
And held up to the fire her little feet so bare,
A sort of drowsy mantle over her senses crept;
She soon forgot her sorrows and, tired out, she slept!
And as I watched her sleeping, and heard that sobbing sigh,
I felt a sort o' choking, a mist came in my eye;
She brought to mind a little one who was just about her size,
With just such nut-brown ringlets and tender, loving eyes.
I shuddered as I thought, what if some day my own,
Now blessed with home and plenty, should wander sad and
Like this poor child, to seek this cold world's colder dole.
The picture, Bob, was frightful; it chilled my very soul;
I felt that I but paid a debt to this poor child of sorrow,
Which might be due my own in some far-off to-morrow.
When her short rest was over, and time to go had come,
It brought the sad remembrance of hungry ones at home;
And so I filled her basket with dainty bits of food
Such as the surgeon tells us for invalids are good;
And I sent Ben, my darkey, with 'hard-bread,' meal and
meat,
And other things we reckoned the healthy ones could eat;
Besides I gave her something to shield her ill-clad form
And shoeless little feet from winter's cold and storm.
It wasn't much I gave her, not much in the amount;
Perhaps it will be credited upon my loose account,
Help through my final papers which, much I fear, without
Some lift like that, won't pass when I'm last mustered out.
I wrapped my 'capote' round her; I kissed her then 'good
bye.'
'May God bless you!' she whispered, the bright tear in her
Now though I wear the 'color, the good old 'federal blue,'
Had fought against her father the weary war all through,
Yet still, the proudest memory of all my life that's fled
Is of my little kindness to that child of the dead.
On stormy nights in winter, when winds are howling wild,
I hear the sweet 'God bless you,' of that dead rebel's child.”
They sat alone by the bright wood fire,
The gray-haired dame and the agéd sire,
Dreaming of days gone by;
The tear-drops fell on each wrinkled cheek,
They both had thoughts that they could not speak,
And each heart uttered a sigh.
For their sad and tearful eyes descried
Three little chairs placed side by side,
Against the sitting-room wall;
Old fashioned enough as there they stood,
Their seats of flag and their frames of wood,
With their backs so straight and tall.
Then the sire shook his silvery head,
And with trembling voice he gently said,-
'Mother, those empty chairs!
They bring us such sad, sad thoughts to-night,
We'll put them forever out of sight,
In the small dark room up stairs."
But she answered, " Father, no, not yet,
For I look at them and I forget
That the children are away:
The boys come back, and our Mary, too,
With her apron on, of checkered blue,
And sit here every day.
"Johnny still whittles a ship's tall masts,
And Willie his leaden bullets casts,
While Mary her patch-work sews;
At evening time three childish prayers
Go up to God from those little chairs,
So softly that no one knows.
"Johnny comes back from the billow deep,
Willie wakes from his battle-field sleep,
To say good-night to me;
Mary's a wife and a mother no more,
But a tired child whose play-time is o'er,
And comes to rest on my knee.
"So let them stand there, though empty now,
And every time when alone we bow,
At the Father's throne to pray,
We'll ask to meet the children above,
In our Saviour's home of rest and love,
Where no child goeth away."
THE OLD SAMPLER.-M. E. SANGSTER.
In the New England kitchen at the Centennial there was sampler one hundred years old, wrought, as the faded words upon it stated, by "Elizabeth, aged eight," Studying the quaint embroidery, we could but wonder if it was not the anhiact of the following beautiful poem.
Out of the way, in a corner
Of the dear old attic room,
Where bunches of herbs from the hillside
Shed ever a sweet perfume,
An oaken chest is standing,
With hasp, and padlock, and key,
Strong as the hands that made it,
On the other side of the sea.
When the Winter days are dreary,
And we're out of heart with life,-
Of its crowding cares aweary,
And sick of its restless strife,
We take a lesson in patience
From the attic corner dim,
Where the chest still holds its treasures
A warder faithful and grim.
Robes of an antique fashion,
Linen, and lace, and silk,
That time has tinted with saffron,
Though once they were white as milk;
Wonderful baby garments,
Broidered with loving care
By fingers that felt the pleasure
As they wrought the ruffles fair.
A sword, with the red rust on it,
That flashed in the battle tide
When from Lexington to Yorktown,
Sorely men's souls were tried;
A plumed chapeau, and a buckle,
And many a relic fine;
And all by itself, the sampler
Framed in by berry and vine.
Faded the square of canvas,
And dim is the silken thread,
But I think of white hands dimpled
And a childish, sunny head;
For here in cross and tent stitch,
In a wreath of berry and vine,
She wrought it a hundred years ago,
"Elizabeth, aged nine."
In and out in the sunshine
The little needle flashed,
In and out on the rainy day
When the merry drops down plashed,
As close she sat by her mother,
The little Puritan maid,
And did her piece on the sampler
While the other children played.
You are safe in the beautiful heaven,
'Elizabeth, aged nine,"
But before you went, you had troubles
Greater than any of mine!
Oh, the gold hair turned with sorrow,
White as the drifted snow;
And your tears fell here where I'm standing,
On this very plumed chapeau!
When you put it away, the wearer
Would need it nevermore,
By a sword thrust, learning the secrets,
God keeps on yonder shore.
But you wore your grief like a glory,
You could not yield supine,
Who wrought in your patient childhood,
"Elizabeth, aged nine."
For love is of the immortal,
And patience is sublime;
And trouble's a thing of every day
And touching every time.
And childhood, sweet and sunny,
And womanly truth and grace,
Ever can light life's darkness,
And fill earth's lowliest place.
THE DARKEY BOOTBLACK.
The bootblack at the corner-stand on C street was looking for a customer. He was as black as the ace of spades, and as he carelessly dusted off his stand with the stump of a cornbrush, he occasionally paused and rolled his eyes hungrily and down the street.
Presently a tall, raw-boned, middle-aged man, with a considerable length of goatee and not a little breadth of hat rim, stopped and glanced at the stand with some show of interest.
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