THE LITTLE BLACK-EYED REBEL.

THE name of "the little black-eyed rebel" was Mary Redmond. She was the daughter of a patriot who lived in Philadelphia at the time it was occupied by the British troops. In that city, and at the above-mentioned time, the incident told in the poem took place.

A

BOY drove into the city, his wagon loaded down With food to feed the people of the British-governed town;

And the little black-eyed rebel, so innocent and sly, Was watching for his coming from the corner of her

eye.

His face looked broad and honest, his hands were brown and tough,

The clothes he wore upon him were homespun, coarse, and rough;

But one there was who watched him, who long time lingered nigh,

And cast at him sweet glances from the corner of her

eye.

He drove up to the market, he waited in the line; His apples and potatoes were fresh and fair and fine; But long and long he waited, and no one came to buy, Save the black-eyed rebel, watching from the corner of her eye.

"Now who will buy my apples?" he shouted long and loud;

And "Who wants my potatoes?" he repeated to the

crowd;

But from all the people round him came no word of a reply,

Save the black-eyed rebel, answering from the corner of her eye.

For she knew that 'neath the lining of the coat he wore that day

Were long letters from the husbands and the fathers

far away,

Who were fighting for the freedom that they meant to gain or die;

And a tear like silver glistened in the corner of her eye. how to get them? crept the ques

But the treasures,

tion through her mind,

Since keen enemies were watching for what prizes they might find:

And she paused awhile and pondered, with a pretty little sigh;

Then resolve crept through her features, and a shrewdness fired her eye.

So she resolutely walked up to the wagon old and red; "May I have a dozen apples for a kiss?" she sweetly

said:

And the brown face flushed to scarlet; for the boy was somewhat shy,

And he saw her laughing at him from the corner of

her eye.

"You may have them all for nothing, and more, if you want," quoth he.

"I will have them, my good fellow, but can pay for them," said she;

And, she clambered on the wagon, minding not who all

were by,

With a laugh of reckless romping in the corner of her

eye.

Clinging round his brawny neck, she clasped her fingers white and small,

And then whispered, "Quick! the letters! thrust them underneath my shawl!

Carry back again this package, and be sure that you are spry!"

And she sweetly smiled upon him from the corner of

her eye.

Loud the motley crowd were laughing at the strange, ungirlish freak,

And the boy was scared and panting, and so dashed he could not speak;

And "Miss, I have good apples," a bolder lad did cry; But she answered, “No, I thank you," from the corner

of her eye.

With the news of loved ones absent to the dear friends they would greet,

Searching them who hungered for them, swift she glided through the street.

"There is nothing worth the doing that it does not pay to try,"

Thought the little black-eyed rebel, with a twinkle in

her eye.

Anonymous.

PEWTER PLATTER ALLEY.

PROM Christ-Church graves, across the way,

A dismal, horrid place is found,

Where rushing winds exert their sway,
And Greenland winter chills the ground:
No blossoms there are seen to bloom,
No sun pervades the dreary gloom!

The people of that stormy place
In penance for some ancient crime
Are held in a too narrow space,
Like those beyond the bounds of time,
Who, darkened still, perceive no day,
While seasons waste and moons decay.

Cold as the shade that wraps them round,
This icy region prompts our fear;

And he who treads this frozen ground

Shall curse the chance that brought him here, The slippery mass predicts his fate,

A broken arm, a wounded pate.

When August sheds his sultry beam,
May Celia never find this place,
Nor see, upon the clouded stream,
The fading summer in her face;
And may I ne'er discover there
The gray that mingles with my hair.

The watchman sad, whose drowsy call
Proclaims the hour forever fled,

Avoids this path to Pluto's hall;

For who would wish to wake the dead!

Still let them sleep, it is no crime,

They pay no tax to know the time.

No coaches hence, in glittering pride,
Convey their freight to take the air;
No gods nor heroes here reside,
Nor powdered beau, nor lady fair, -
All, all to warmer regions flee,

And leave these glooms to Towne and me.

Philip Freneau,

LAUREL HILL.

In this cemetery are deposited the mortal remains of Joseph C. Neal, over whose last resting-place a beautiful and emblematic monument has been erected to his memory, by friends " who had loved him as a man and admired him as an author."

ITH chastened spirit wandering mid the graves,

WITH

I passed an hour afar from worldly sound, Where earthly care no longer Toil enslaves, Where silence only, and Death's types, abound.

The soothing stillness of the summer air,

The waving trees that shadowed sculptured stone, The unknown names of those who mouldered there, Subdued my soul like music's solemn tone.

I marked the token that Affection rears
Above the buried dust so loved in life;

Where fragrant flowers, nursed by Sorrow's tears,
Adorn the sod where rests a child or wife;