Welcome, my old Sergeant, welcome! Welcome by that countersign!'

And he pointed to the scar there, under this old cloak of mine!

"As he grasped my hand, I shuddered, thinking only of the grave;

But he smiled and pointed upward with a bright and bloodless glaive;

'That's the way, sir, to head-quarters.' 'What headquarters?' 'Of the brave.'

'But the great tower?' 'That,' he answered, ‘is the way, sir, of the brave!'

"Then a sudden shame came o'er me, at his uniform of light;

At my own so old and tattered, and at his so new and

bright:

'Ah!' said he, 'you have forgotten the new uniform to-night,

Hurry back, for you must be here at just twelve o'clock to-night!'

"And the next thing I remember, you were sitting there, and I

Doctor, did you hear a footstep? Hark! -God bless you all! Good-by!

Doctor, please to give my musket and my knapsack, when I die,

To my son-my son that 's coming, he won't get here till I die!

"Tell him his old father blessed him as he never did

before,

دو

And to carry that old musket - Hark! a knock is at the door!

"Till the Union " - See! it opens! "Father! Father! speak once more!"

"Bless you!" gasped the old, gray Sergeant, and he lay and said no more!

Forceythe Willson.

Sierra Madre, New Mexico Ter.

ON THE SUMMIT OF THE SIERRA MADRE.

ERCHED like an eagle on this kingly height,

PERCHED

That towers toward heaven above all neighboring heights,

Owning no mightier but the King of kings,

I look abroad on what seems boundless space,

And feel in every nerve and pulsing vein
A deep thrill of my immortality.

How desolate is all around! No tree,

Or shrub, or blade, or blossom ever springs
Amid these bald and blackened rocks; no wing

Save the fell vulture's ever fans the thin

And solemn atmosphere; no rain e'er falls
From passing clouds, for this stupendous peak
Is lifted far above the summer storm,
Its thunders and its lightnings. As I hold

Strange converse with the genius of the place,
I feel as if I were a demigod,

And waves of thought seem beating on my soul
As ocean billows on a rocky shore

O'erstrown with mouldering wrecks.

I look abroad,

And to my eyes the whole world seems unrolled
As 't were an open scroll. The beautiful,
Grand, and majestic, near and far, are blent
Like colors in the bow upon the cloud.
Illimitable plains, with myriad flowers,

White, blue, and crimson, like our country's flag;
The green of ancient forests, like the green
Of the old ocean wrinkled by the winds;
Cities and towns, dim and mysterious,

Like something pictured in the dreams of sleep;
A hundred streams, with all their wealth of isles,
Some bright and clear, and some with gauze-like mists
Half veiled like beauty's cheek; tall mountain-chains,
Stretching afar to the horizon's verge,

With an intenser blue than that of heaven,
Forever beckoning to the human soul
To fly from pinnacle to pinnacle

Like an exulting storm-bird: these, all these,
Sink deep into my spirit like a spell

From God's own spirit, and I can but bow
To Nature's awful majesty, and weep

As if my head were waters.

Fare thee well,

Old peak, bold monarch of the subject clouds,
That crouch in reverence at thy feet; I go

Afar from thee to stand where now I stand,
Oh, nevermore. Yet through my few brief years
Of mortal being, these wild wondrous scenes,
On which thou gazest out eternally,

Will be a picture graven on my life,

A portion of my never-dying soul.

What God has pictured Time may not erase.

George Denison Preatice.

YE

Sierra Nevada, Cal.

TO THE SIERRAS.

E snow-capped mountains, basking in the sun, Like fleecy clouds that deck the summer skies, On you I gaze, when day's dull task is done, Till night shuts out your glories from my eyes.

For stormy turmoil and ambition's strife

I find in you a solace and a balm, Derive a higher purpose, truer life,

From your pale splendor, passionless and calm.

Mellowed by distance, all your rugged cliffs
And deep ravines in graceful outlines lie;
Each giant form in silent grandeur lifts
Its hoary summit to the evening sky.

I reck not of the wealth untold, concealed
Beneath your glorious coronal of snows,

Whose budding treasure, yet but scarce revealed, Shall blossom into trade, -a golden rose.

A mighty realm is waking at your feet

To life and beauty, from the lap of Time, With cities vast, where millions yet shall meet, And Peace shall reign in majesty sublime. Rock-ribbed Sierras, with your crests of snow, A type of manhood, ever strong and true, Whose heart with golden wealth should ever glow, Whose thoughts in purity should symbol you.

John J. Owen.

I

Stanislaus, the River, Cal.

THE SOCIETY UPON THE STANISLOW.

RESIDE at Table Mountain, and my name is
Truthful James.

I am not up to small deceit, or any sinful games; And I'll tell in simple language what I know about the row

That broke up our society upon the Stanislow.

But first I would remark, that it is not a proper plan
For any scientific gent to whale his fellow-man,
And, if a member don't agree with his peculiar whim,
To lay for that same member for to "put a head" on

him.