SELECTIONS FR(

For we are the same our fathers have been;
We see the same sights our fathers have seen,-
We drink the same stream and view the same sun,
And run the same course our fathers have run.
The thoughts we are thinking our fathers would think;
From the death we are shrinking our fathers would shrink,
To the life we are clinging they also would cling;
But it speeds forus all, like a bird on the wing.
They loved, but the story we cannot unfold;
They scorned, but the heart of the haughty is cold;
They grieved, but no wail from their slumbers will come;
They joyed, but the tongue of their gladness is dumb.
They died, aye! they died : and we things that are now,
Who walk on the turf that lies over their brow,
Who make in their dwelling a transient abode,
Meet the things that they met on their pilgrimage road.
Yea! hope and despondency, pleasure and pain,
We mingle together in sunshine and rain;
And the smiles and the tears, the song and the dirge.
Still follow each other, like surge upon surge.
'T is the wink of an eye, 't is the draught of a breath;
Frm the blossom of health to the paleness of death,
From the gilded saloon to the bier and the shroud, -
Oh, why should the spirit of mortal be proud?
ROLL CALL.
ORPORAL Green (" the orderly cried;
"Here!" was the answer loud and clear,
From the lips of a soldier who stood near,
And " Here!" was the word the next replied.

"Cyrus Drew !" - then a silence fell -
This time no answer followed the call;
Only his rear man had seen him fall,
Killed or wounded, he could not tell.
There they stood in the failing light,
These men of battle, with grave, dark looks,
As plain to be read as open books,
While slowly gathered the shades of night.
The fern on the hill-side was splashed with blood,
And down in the corn, where the poppies grew,
Were redder stains than the poppies knew;
And crimson-dyed was the river's flood.

For the foe had crossed, from the other side,
That day in the face of a murderous fire,
That swept them down in its terrible ire;
And their life-blood went to color the tide.
"Herbert Kline !" At the call, there came
Two stalwart soldiers into the line,
Bearing between them this Herbert Kline,
Wounded and bleeding, to answer his name.
"Ezra Kerr ! "- and a voice answered, "Here!"
"Hiram Kerr! "-but no man replied.
They were brothers, these two, the sad winds sighed,
And a shudder crept through the cornfield near.
"Ephraim Deane !"- then a soldier spoke:
"Deane carried our Regiment's colors," he said;
"Where our Ensign was shot, I left him dead,
Just after the enemy wavered and broke."
"Close to the road-side his body lies;
I paused a moment and gave him to drink;
He murmured his mother's name, I think,
And Death came with it and closed his eyes."
'T was a victory; yes, but it cost us dear,-
For that company's roll, when called at night,
Of a hundred men who went into the fight,
Numbered bat twenty that answered "Here!"
OVER THE HILL FROM THE POOR HOUSE.*
BY WILL M. CARLETON.
WHO was always counted, they say,
Rather a bad stick any way,
Splintered all over with dodges and tricks,
Known as the "worst of the deacon's six;"
I, the truant, saucy and bold,
The one black sheep in my father's fold,
"Once on a time," as the stories say,
Went over the hill on a winter's day-
Over the hill to the poor house.
Tom could save what twenty could earn;
But givin' was somethin' he ne'er could learn;
Isaac could half o' the Scriptures speak,
Committed a hundred verses a week;
Never forgot, an' never slipped;
But "Honor thy father and mother" he skipped.
So over the hill to the poor house.
* From "Farm Ballads," by Will X Carleton; published by Harper
h Brothers.

I -

-                                                                                               I