We sent it back, then cast sad eyes upon the scene around; A baby's hand had touched the ties that brothers once had bound.

That's all-save when the dawn awoke again the work of hell,

And through the sullen clouds of smoke the screaming missiles fell,

Our general often rubbed his glass, and marveled much to see Not a single shell that whole day fell in the camp of Battery B.

I'M WITH YOU ONCE AGAIN.-GEO. P. MORRIS.

I'm with you once again, my friends,
No more my footsteps roam;
Where it began my journey ends,
Amid the scenes of home.

No other clime has skies so blue,

Or streams so broad and clear,
And where are hearts so warm and true
As those that meet me here?

Since last, with spirits wild and free,
I pressed my native strand,

I've wandered many miles at sea,
And many miles on land:

I've seen fair regions of the earth
With rude commotion torn,
Which taught me how to prize the worth
Of that where I was born.

In other countries when I heard
The language of my own,

How fondly each familiar word

Awoke an answering tone!

But when our woodland songs were sung

Upon a foreign mart

The vows that faltered on the tongue

With rapture thrilled my heart!

My native land! I turn to you,

With blessing and with prayer,
Where man is brave and woman true,
And free as mountain air.

Long may our flag in triumph wave,
Against the world combined,

And friends a welcome-foes a grave,
Within our borders find.

THE TRUE TEMPLE.

Not where high towers rear
Their lofty heads above some costly fane,
Doth God our Heavenly Father only deign
Our humble prayers to hear,-

Not where the lapsing hours

The cankering footprints of the spoiler, time.
Are idly noted with a sounding chime,
From proud cathedral towers;

Not where the chiseled stone,

And shadowy niche, and shaft and architrave,
The dim old chancel, or the solemn nave
Seem vast and chill and lone;

Not 'neath the vaulted dome,
Or fretted roof, magnificently flung,

O'er cushioned seats, or curtained desks o'erhung With rare work of the loom;

Not where the sunlight falls

From the stained oriel with a chastened shade, O'er sculptured tombs where mighty ones are laid, Till the last trumpet calls;

Not where rich music floats

Through the hushed air until the soul is stirred As 'twere a chord from that bright land as heard When angels swell the notes.

Perchance 'tis well to raise

These palace temples, thus rich wrought, to Him Who 'midst His thousand thousand cherubims Can stoop to list our praise.

Yet when our spirits bow

And sue for mercy at His sacred shrine,
Can all the trappings of the teeming mine
Light up the darkened brow?

O no!-God may be there

His smile may on such costly altars rest;
Yet are His humbler sanctuaries blest
With equal love and care.

Aye, wheresoe'er on earth
Or on the shore or on the far blue sea
His children, offspring of the true, may be,
There hath his spirit birth.

Our sins may be forgiven,

As, weak and few, our prayers go up to God;
E'en though our temple floor be earth's green sod,
Its roof the vault of heaven.

A KER CHEW DUET.

They had been keeping company a year. He told her Friday afternoon that he would be up early Sunday evening, as he had something of great importance to tell her, and a present to give her. With a woman's keen intuition she knew what that something of importance would be, and she looked forward to the hour with sweet expectations.

He was there on time, but hardly in the condition he desired. A heavy cold had tackled him the night before, and his eyes were red and inflamed, and his nose was nearly twice its usual size, and shone with a lustre that would have appeared to much better advantage on a doorplate. Singularly enough, the young lady was similarly conditioned. She ushered him into the parlor, and without any preliminary ceremony they were seated on the same sofa together. He took out his handkerchief and finding a dry section, wiped his nose. This reminded her of a duty she owed herself, and she attended to it at once. He held one of her hands in his, and his handkerchief in the other. Then he spoke :

"Susad, I cub to dide to dalk to you of subthig dearer-ah ah-ooh (a prompt application of the handkerchief cut off the sneeze in its bud) dearer to be thad libe-ah ah-thad id-ooooh-ker chew, ker chew, ker chew." A moment's pause. "I've god ad awful code," he explains, with due solemnity. "Sobe I," she replies.

A moment is devoted to the silent use of the handkerchiefs, and then he continues:

"Darlig, you bust have seed all the tibe how mudge-oohoon-ker (the handkerchief again saves him) how mudge I have thought ob you. Every hour ob the day or dide-ahah-ooh-ooh, ker chew, ker chew.”

She wiped her eyes-and then her nose, and made an honest endeavor to look languishingly, but owing to the watery condition of the former, and the fiery glow of the latter, she appeared to an unhappy advantage. But he did not notice it.

"Susad," he began again, grasping her hand with fervor, and clutching his handkerchief with equal earnestness, "what

GGGG

is libe without love? Dothig. Darlig, do you, cad you love be edough to be by-ah-ah-ooh-chew!”

"You'll be bide, all bide?" he gasped.

"I will, Hedry, I will,” she hoarsely whispered.

He drew her to him, slipped the ring upon her finger, and there they stood together, their reddened and half closed eyes blinking in sweet, holy ecstasy upon each other.

My poor darlig has god sudge a bad code,” he sympathizingly murmured.

"So id my Hedry," she softly whispered back.

"You must take sub bedicid for that code, to dide," she said.

"So bust you," he added.

"Yes, ad you'll soak your feet in hod wader?"

"I will; ad you'll soak yours?" he eagerly asked. "I will," she replied.

"Heaved bless you, by darlig, by precious darlig," clasping her again to his breast. And then he stole out into the darkness; and she lingered a moment at the door, and heard his dear voice ring out on the night air as he passed away— "Ker chew, ker chew."

WET AND DRY.-CLARK JILLSON.

One Sunday morn good parson Jones,
Before the service hour,

While going from his home to church,
Was troubled by a shower.

The lightning crinkled overhead,
While peal on peal revolved;
The parson was a well-soaked man,
And yet was not dissolved.

"I cannot preach," said parson Jones,
"Without I feel the pain

Of being wet from crown to heel-
Completely drenched with rain."

"You must go on," says deacon Smith
With voice a little gruff,

"Though as a man you may be wet,
As preacher, dry enough."

THERE'S BUSINESS FOR ALL.-P. S. PENNELL.

There's business for all in this world, my boy,

Though some folks find nothing to do; And misery will misery forever enhance With him who is satisfied fortune is chance, And only may come to a few.

Who waiteth for fortune is waiting for grapes
In a desert where grapes never grew,-
A beggar that sitteth where nobody goes,
An idler for gold where no gold ever flows,-
There's no business there, boy, for you.

Who boreth for water must not expect oil,
Nor gold if for silver he sue,

If sleepeth the husbandman, sleepeth the soil,
And harvest refuses the product of toil ;—

Wake up boy! there's business for you.
The season goes by, the season comes back,
The strength of the earth to renew;
The winter is past and spring has come round
With music and laughter, and shuffle and bound,
She has business, boy, all the year through.
She has business for us in her stern demands,
Demands that forever renew

In industry's calls from the asking lands,
Whose acres are waiting for toil's clever hands,-
For more than they're willing to do.

Life's valleys are gleaming with rivers of sin,-
Temptation's flowers charming to view,—
The siren walks there, where charming she's been
Since Eden went out and temptation came in.
Stand guard boy! she's watching for you.
Who, lured by her wiles, once passes sin's door,
Goes down to the river of pain,

Deception walks with him, the charmer before,
They pass to the river, from death's inky shore
We call, but he comes not again.

Turn not for her lure, from business my boy,
You'll find what I tell you is true-

Life's moments will brighten in steady employ,
And blossom with comforts too sweet for the joy
Of those who find nothing to do.

Be true to your manhood, work up to the line,
To wisdom's line,-close as you can,—