Now and then, they sputter away;

A puff and a crack, and I hear the ball.
Mighty poor shooting, I should say—
Not bad fellows, may be, after all.

My chance, of course, isn't worth a dime

But I thought, 'twould be over, sudden and

quick;

Well, since it seems that we're not on time,
Here's for a touch of the Kilikinick.

Cool as a clock!—and, what is strange-
Out of this dream of death and alarm,
(This wild hard week of battle and change)-
Out of the rifle's deadly range—

My thoughts are all at the dear old farm.

'Tis green as a sward, by this, I knowThe orchard is just beginning to set, They mowed the home-lot a week ago—

The corn must be late, for that piece is wet.

I can think of one or two, that would wipe
A drop or so from a soft blue eye,

To see me sit, and puff at my pipe,

With a hundred death's heads grinning hard by·

And I wonder, when this has all passed o er,
And the tattered old stars in triumph wave on
Through street and square, with welcoming roar,
If ever they'll think of us who are gone?

How we marched together, sound or sick,
Sank in the trench o'er the heavy spade-
How we charged on the guns, at double-quick-
Kept rank for Death to choose and pick-

And lay on the bed no fair hands made.

Ah, well! at last, when the Nation's free,
And flags are flapping from bluff to bay,
In old St. Lou, what a time there'll be!
I mayn't be there, the Hurrah to see-
But if the Old Rag goes back to-day,
They never shall say 'twas carried by me!

THE PICKET-GUARD.

MRS. ETHEL LYNN BEERS.

"All quiet along the Potomac," they say,
"Except now and then a stray picket

I's shot, as he walks on his beat, to and fro,
By a rifleman hid in the thicket.

'T is nothing: a private or two, now and then,
Will not count in the news of battle;
Not an officer lost,-only one of the men,
Moaning out, all alone, the death rattle."

All quiet along the Potomac to-night,
Where the soldiers lie peacefully dreaming;
Their tents in the rays of the clear autumn moon,
Or the light of the watch-fires, are gleaming.
A tremulous sigh, as the gentle night-wind

Through the forest leaves softly is creeping; While stars up above, with their glittering eyes, Keep guard,-for the army is sleeping.

There's only the sound of the lone sentry's tread
As he tramps from the rock to the fountain,
And he thinks of the two in the low trundle-bed,
Far away in the cot on the mountain.
His musket falls slack; his face, dark and grim,
Grows gentle with memories tender,

As he mutters a prayer for the children asleep,
For their mother,—may Heaven defend her!

The moon seems to shine just as brightly as then, That night when the love yet unspoken