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with one more of his vigorous strokes he would be clinging to it, when a high, green, vast hill-side of water moving on shoreward from beyond the ship, he seemed to leap up into it with a mighty bound, and the ship was gone!
They drew him to my very feet, insensible, dead. He was carried to the nearest house, and every means of restoration was tried; but he had been beaten to death by the great wave, and his generous heart was stilled for
As I sat beside the bed, when hope was abandoned, and all was done, a fisherman who had known me when Emily and I were children, and ever since, whispered my name at the door. 'Sir,
you will come over yonder ?” The old remembrance that had been recalled to me was in his look, and I asked him, “Has a body come ashore ?"
He answered nothing. But he led me to the shore. And on that part of it where she and I had looked for shells, two children,-on that part of it where some lighter fragments of the old boat blown down last night had been scattered by the wind,-among the ruins of the home he had wronged,—I saw him lying with his head upon his arm, as I had often seen him lie at school.
THE SWEETEST PICTURE.
MONG the beautiful pictures
That hang on memory's wall, Is one of a dim old forest,
That seemeth the best of all; Nor for its gnarled oaks olden,
Dark with the mistletoe; Nor for the violets golden
That sprinkle the vale below; Nor for the milk-white lilie
That lean from the fragrant hedge; Nor for the vines on the upland,
Where the bright red berries rest; Nor the pink, nor the pale, sweet cowslips,
It seemed to me the best. I once had a little brother
With eyes that were dark and deepIn the lap of that olden forest
He lieth in peace asleep.
Free as the winds that blow,
The summers of long ago.
And one of the autumn days
A bed of the yellow leaves.
My neck in sweet embrace
Silently covered his face ;
And when the arrows of sunset
Lodged in the tree tops bright, He fell, in his saint-like beauty,
Asleep by the gates of light. Therefore of all the pictures,
That hang on memory's wall, The one of the dim old forest Seemeth the best of all.
Ý RACIE'S kitty, day by day,
Moped beside the fire and pined; Would no longer frisk or play,
Or the worsted ball unwind. Gracie coaxed, "Play, kitty, do!" Kitty answered sadly, “Mew!" All in vain were dainty fare,
Bread and milk all warm and new,
Thinner, weaker still she grew,
Down the stairs at early light,
Any better over night ;"
Where the morning glories climb;
With red rose-leaves lined and spread,
And perfumed with pinks and thyme,
Gracie's little tender hands
End at last their loving task;
Then she lifts her face to ask,
THE SOLDIERS' HOME, WASHINGTON.
Blazed high in a halo of light below
And the dome of the Capitol gleamed like snow In a glory of light, as higher and higher
This wondrous creation of man was sent
To challenge the lights of the firmament. A tall man, tawny and spare as bone,
With battered old hat and with feet half bare, With the air of a soldier that was all his own
Maybe something more than a soldier's air Came clutching a staff as in sheer despair;
Limped in through my gate—and I thought to beg
Light clutching a staff, slow dragging a leg. The moon, like a sharp-drawn cimeter,
Kept watch in heaven. All earth lay still. Some sentinel stars stood watch afar,
Some crickets kept clanging along the hill,
As the tall, stern relic of blood and war
Limped in, and, with hand up to brow half raised, Looked out as one that is dazed or crazed,–
His gaunt face pleading for food and rest,
His set lips white as a tale of shame, His black coat tight to a shirtless breast,
His black eyes burning in mine like flame.
Their vision of beautiful earth, I think.
Were growing brighter as he neared the brink
For his face was as hard as the hard, thin hand
“Sir, I am a soldier !" The battered old hat
Stood up as he spake, like to one on paradeStood taller and braver as he spake out that,
And the tattered old coat, that was tightly laid
Searched up and down for my regiments.
Have they pitched in Heaven their cloud-white tents ? Or, tell me, my friend, shall I find them here
On the hill beyond, at the Soldiers' Home,
Where the weary soldiers have ceased to roam ? "Aye, I am a soldier and a brigadier!
Is this the way to the Soldiers' Home? There is plenty and rest for us all, I hear,
And a bugler, bidding us cease to roam,