wild and indistinct murmur. Tramp, tramp, tramp, the air is filled with the sound, and then distinct voices break upon the air, and the clatter is borne upon the breeze. The boy turns to his mother, and asks her who has gained the day. Every heart feels vividly that the battle is now over, that the account of blood is near its close, that the appeal to the God of battles has been made. The mother turns her tearful eyes to the south; she cannot answer the question. The old man, awakened from a reverie, turns suddenly to the maiden, and clasps her arm with his trembling hands. His lips move, but his tongue is unable to syllable a sound. He flings a trembling hand southward, and speaks his question with the gesture of age. The battle-the battle-how goes the battle? As he makes the gesture, the figure of a soldier is seen rushing from the mist in the valley below; he comes speeding round the bend of the road, he ascends the hill, but his steps totter and he staggers to and fro like a drunken man. He bears a burden on his shoulders is it the plunder of the fight? is it the spcil gathered from the ranks of the dead? No!-no! He bears an aged man on his shoulders. The Both are clad in the blue hunting-shirt, torn and tattered and stained with blood, it is true, but still you can recognize the uniform of the Revolution. tottering soldier nears the group, he lays the aged veteran down by the roadside, and then looks around with a ghastly face and a rolling eye. There is blood dripping from his attire, his face is begrimed with powder and spotted with crimson drops. He glances wildly around, and then, kneeling on the sod, he takes the hand of the aged man in his own, and raises his head upon his knee. The battle-the battle-how goes the battle? The group cluster around as they ask the question. The young Continental makes no reply, but, gazing upon the face of the dying veteran, wipes the beaded drops of blood from his forehead. "Comrade!" shrieks the veteran, "raise me on my feet; and wipe the blood from my eyes. I would see him once again." He is raised upon his feet, and the blood is wiped from his eyes. "I see it is he—it is Washington! Yonder-yonder I see his sword-and Anthony Wayne-raise me higher, comrade-all is getting dark-I would see-Mad Anthony! Lift me, comrade-higher, higher-I see him-I see Mad Anthony! Wipe the blood from my eyes, comrade, for it darkens my sight; it is dark-it is dark!" And the young soldier held in his arms a lifeless corpse. The old veteran was dead. He had fought his last fight, fired his last shot, shouted the name of Mad Anthony for the last time; and yet his withered hand clenched, with the tightness of death, the broken bayonet. As The battle-the battle-how goes the battle? the thrilling question again rung in his ears, the young Continental turned to the group, smiled ghastly, and then flung his wounded arm to the south. "Lost!" he shrieked, and rushed on his way like one bereft of his senses. He had not gone ten steps, when he bit the dust of the roadside, and lay extended in the face of day, a lifeless corpse. So they died; the young hero and the aged veteran, children of the Land of Penn! So died thousands of their brethren throughout the Continent-Quebec and Saratoga, Camden and Bunker Hill, to this hour, retain their bones! Nameless and unhonored, the "Poor Men Heroes" of Pennsylvania sleep the last slumber on every battle-field of the Revolution. The incident which we have pictured is but a solitary page among ten thousand. In every spear of the grass that grows on our battle-fields, in every wild flower that blooms above the dead of the Revolution, you read the quiet heroism of the children of the Laud of Penn.-GEORGE Lippard. JOHN AND TIBBIE'S DISPUTE. JOHN DAVISON and Tibbie, his wife, Sat toastin' their taes ae nicht, When something startit in the fluir, And blinkit by their sicht. "Guidwife," quoth John, "did ye see that moose? Whar sorra was the cat?" "A moose?"-"Ay, a moose." It wasna a moose, 't was a rat." Na, na, Guidman,— "Ow, ow, Guidwife, to think ye've been Sae lang aboot the hoose, An' no to ken a moose frae a rat! Yon wasna a rat! 't was a moose.' "I've seen mair mice than you, Guidman- Sae haud your tongue an' sae nae mair— * Me haud my tongue for you, Guidwife! I'll be mester o' this hoose I saw't as plain as een could see't, An' I tell ye, it was a moose!" "If you're the mester o' the hoose, It's I'm the mistress o''t; An' I ken best what's in the house 66 Sae I tell ye, it was a rat." 'Weel, weel, Guidwife, gae mak' the brose, So up she rose, and made the brose, They supit, and supit, and supit the brose, "Sic fules we were to fa' oot, Guidwife, Aboot a moose "-"A what? It's a lee ye tell, an' I say again It wasua a moose, 't was a rat!' 66 Wad ye ca' me a leear to my very face? My faith, but ye craw croose! I tell ye, Tib, I never will bear 't— 'Twas a moose!"-" "T was a rat!"-" "T was a moose!" Wi' her spoon she strack him ower the "Ye dour auld doit, tak' that— Gae to your bed, ye canker'd sumph pow— 'Twas a rat!"-" "Twas a moose!"-" "Twas a rat!" She sent the brose caup at his heels, As he hirpled ben the hoose; Yet he shoved oot his head as he steekit the door, A cried, "T was moose! 't was a moose!" But, when the carle was fast asleep, ""Twas a rat! 't was a rat! 't was a rat!" The de'il be wi' me if I think It was a beast ava!. Neist mornin', as she sweepit the fluir, A SOUTHLAND. PARADISE of sunny skies, Of everlasting summer-time, The south wind teems with lovers' dreams, Inspires you with her indolence; What worlds of gold her orchards hold, What yellow globes with nectar filled; How sweet the air, the earth how fair, From which such juices were distilled: Nor all the fabled gods of old Drank such rich wine from cups of gold. |