He passes the fountain, the blasted pine tree- Yet onward he goes, through the broad belt of light, It looked like a rifle-"Ah! Mary, good-bye!" All quiet along the Potomac to-night, While soft falls the dew on the face of the dead The picket 's off duty forever. ETHEL LYNN BEERS. The Countersign. ALAS! the weary hours pass slow, And in the marshes far below I hear the bearded whippoorwill. I scarce can see a yard ahead; My ears are strained to catch each sound; I hear the leaves about me shed, And the spring's bubbling through the ground. Along the beaten path I pace, Where white rags mark my sentry's track; In formless shrubs I seem to trace The foeman's form, with bending back; With ready piece I wait and watch, Detect each harmless earthen notch, And turn guerillas into stone; And then amid the lonely gloom, Beneath the tall old chestnut trees, My silent marches I resume, And think of other times than these. "Halt! who goes there?" my challenge cry, 66 Advance, and give the countersign!' With bayonet at the charge I wait The corporal gives the mystic spell; With arms aport I charge my mate, Then onward pass, and all is well. But in the tent that night awake, I still may have the countersign. ANONYMOUS. Sherman's March to the Sea. OUR camp-fires shone bright on the mountain As we stood by our guns in the morning, When a rider came out of the darkness Then cheer upon cheer for bold Sherman That came from the lips of the men; More bright in their splendor would be, And that blessings from Northland would greet us, When Sherman marched down to the sea. Then forward, boys! forward to battle! Frowned down on the flag of the free; Still onward we pressed, till our banners Yet we twined them a wreath of the laurel, Oh, proud was our army that morning, That echoed o'er river and lea, And the stars in our banner shone brighter When Sherman marched down to the sea. SAMUEL H. M. BYERS. Driving Home the Cows. Our of the clover and blue-eyed grass He turned them into the river-lane; One after another he let them pass, Then fastened the meadow bars again. Under the willows, and over the hill, Only a boy! and his father had said Under the feet of the trampling foe. But after the evening work was done, And the frogs were loud in the meadow-swamp, Over his shoulder he slung his gun And stealthily followed the foot-path damp, Across the clover and through the wheat Though cold was the dew on his hurrying feet, Thrice since then had the lanes been white, For news had come to the lonely farm The summer day grew cool and late, He went for the cows when the work was done; But down the lane, as he opened the gate, Brindle, Ebony, Speckle, and Bess, Shaking their horns in the evening wind; Cropping the buttercups out of the grass,— But who was it following close behind? Loosely swung in the idle air The empty sleeve of army blue; For Southern prisons will sometimes yawn, The great tears sprang to their meeting eyes; Together they followed the cattle home. KATE PUTNAM OSGOOD. Popping Corn. AND there they sat, a-popping corn, John Styles and Susan Cutter John Styles as fat as any ox, And Susan fat as butter. And there they sat and shelled the corn, Then Susan she the popper shook, Then John he shook the popper, |