times by our troops, and some are of the friendly or farmer Indians. Scouting is no child's play with them, as they are sure of a terrible death if captured by the hostile Sioux. Two of them are men who helped Mr. Riggs and the families of the mission at Yellow Medicine to escape from the savages last fall. Other-day, who was formerly a leading chief of the Sioux, and who is now a farmer near St. Paul, was expected to join the force, but failed for some reason. The scouts camp in low tents just high enough to creep into, and are constantly at work at their dangerous and tedious tasks.

I said that they had wild experiences. A few days ago, four of them had wandered over on to the Coteau Ridge, twenty miles from camp, expecting to find Indian lodges there, by reason of a war-club which had been found and interpreted. After they left camp, another party of twenty left for another locality, intending to be gone through the night. While the smaller company was wandering through the bushes, they suddenly came upon the remains of a recent fire, and near by were fresh moccasin tracks. They did not doubt the presence of Indians, and moved cautiously. At last, in the distance, they heard the tread of horses' feet, and then the crackling of bushes. They put spurs to their horses and started for the heights of the Cotteau Ridge. Finally they dismounted in an open space, got their carbines in readiness, and awaited the approach. But instead of one direction, their pursuers seemed to be coming in from every side, and to be constantly increasing. Fearing lest they should be overpowered by numbers, four took to flight again, and then there was a long and sharp chase of miles through the darkness. But the pursuers gained, and the four dismounted again and waited for the worst. The party soon came up, and fortunately there was a recognition before shots were exchanged. The men of both companies were scouts, and had thus been manoeuvring for Indian warfare. Such meetings are not infrequent.

The scouts have found quite a number of bodies of persons who were massacred last fall. A few days since they found a body with a purse of gold upon it. They have all sorts of experiences, dodging about in Indian style, leaving fictitious and deceitful signs, meeting herds of buffalo and elk, and hunting for forage and water. They bring in all sorts of trophies. One night they discovered an old Indian pack ox, that looks some as I imagine the infernal bovines ought to, and yesterday a nest of young eagles, a pemican and wolf were brought in. Their life is a hard one, but they enjoy it. It is a rich treat to hear their stories of experience and adventure while engaged as fur traders and hunters on the prairies. One of the Indian scouts, Antoine by name, has offered to carry the mail to and from the expedition throughout the campaign, whether it be one hundred or three hundred miles, and however dangerous the venture. He wants the privilege of killing one horse to every trip, and good pay for his labor, which he will be sure to get. He cannot be induced to speak of any danger. It is to his pluck that I am indebted for this opportunity to send a letter. He is an old Red River Indian, and came into camp in a genuine Pembina cart a few days since.

ARKANSAS TACTICS.-An Arkansas colonel has the following order for mounting his men :

First Order-Prepare fer terr git onto yer creeters. Second Order-GIT!- Leavenworth Conservative.

GOOD WORK.-A correspondent sends an account of the gallant conduct of Henry Shaler, of Indianopolis, Indiana, at the battle of Gettysburgh, written by a son of Daniel Noble, to his mother, which deserves wide publicity. Young Shaler has more than equalled the mythical performance of the Irishman who "surrounded" a half-dozen of the enemy and captured them. We are proud of him. His parents live on South-Alabama street, in Indianapolis. They are Germans. Young Noble says: "Harry is a brick; he did more, that is, he took more prisoners, in the battle of Gettysburgh, than any other man in the army. He took in all twenty-five men; one lieutenant and eighteen men at one time; he took them by strategy that was strategy; "he surrounded them," and they had to give up. On the morning of the fourth he went out with his poncho over his shoulders so that the rebs couldn't see his coat, so they thought he was one of their own men; he went up and told them to lay down their arms and come and help carry some wounded off the field; they did so; when he got them away from their arms he rode up to the lieutenant, and told him to give up his sword; the lieutenant refused at first, but Harry drew his pepper-box, and like Crockett's coon the lieutenant came down without a shot. Harry then took them all into camp. He took a captain and five men at another time, making twenty-five in all, which is doing pretty well for a little Dutchman; and he deserves to be remembered for it."—Indianapolis Journal.

A YANKEE SPELLING-BOOK.-We have received from the publishers, Messrs. Toon & Co., of Atlanta, Geor gia, a spelling-book, which we regret to be compelled to denounce as unworthy of public favor. It is, as the author, Mr. Fleming, admits, a revised edition of Webster's Spelling Book-in other words, it is a Yankee school-book. It is the duty of the Southern press to unite in putting it down.

Mr Fleming tells us in his preface that "no better spelling-book than Dr. Webster's has ever been presented to the American people," ample proof of which he finds in the Yankee test of the unparalleled extent of its circulation. He goes on to add that "his (Webster's) dictionary may be found in almost every family, occupying, as it deservedly does, a preeminence over all others." This statement discloses an amount of ignorance on the part of the author which should deter him from rehashing any more Yankee schoolbooks for Southern use. Webster is not the standard of the best Southern scholars; but Johnson, Walker, and Richardson. Webster's orthography is the detestation of every cultivated Southern gentleman, and this orthography, Mr. Fleming tells us, he has invariably retained. Centre he spells "center," theatre, "theater," and, doubtless, ton, "tun." The retention of these execrable Yankee innovations is enough of itself to damn the book and drive it out of circulation.

Mr. Fleming says further, that "in very few instances Webster's pronunciation has been rejected. The flat or Italian sound of a, as heard in the word father, should not be heard in the words grass, mass, glass, bass, etc. The flat sound of the letter a in these instances is a New-England provincialism." Here, again, Mr. Fleming displays gross ignorance. To this day, the flat, or, as we should say, the third sound of a in grass, mass, glass, etc., is used by the educated and wellbred classes in England, and by those on this continent who have preserved the English language in its greatest purity-the tide-water Virginians.

We dislike extremely to speak harshly of literary labor of any kind. But Mr. Fleming has labored very little in reproducing this bit of Yankee clap-trap, and he is poisoning the very fountain-head of Southern literature. His book should be suppressed at once, for it is to all intents and purposes a Yankee spellingbook, slightly and easily altered by the introduction of Bible readings on the subject of slavery. We do not dwell upon numerous typographical errors, because they can be corrected in subsequent editions, if any should be called for, which we trust will not be the

case.

We must get rid of Yankee orthography and pronunciation at all hazards. If we begin by spelling"centre" center," we shall end by pronouncing "dew" doo," and " COW ""keow." In truth, it would be well for us to have an entirely new language, unknown and unpronounceable in Yankee land. We must have new coins, new weights, new measures, as unlike Yankee coins, weights, etc., as possible. We must be a distinct people in every thing, or else we will never be independent. At all events, we must not be duped with a Yankee spellingbook, such as Mr. Fleming and Messrs. Toon and Co. are attempting to palm upon us.-Richmond Whig.

1

BALLAD OF VICKSBURGH.

Two years the tide of war had rolled In restless fury on

Hearts growing prematurely old

In grief for loved ones gone!

Two years the burdened land had groaned
Beneath the martial train;
With bitter, scalding tears bemoaned
Its argosy of pain!

Two years had brothers met as foes
On many a field and flood-
Had fathers drained the cup of woes
Their son's had steeped in blood!

The haughty rebel striving hard

To fill a land with slaves;
The gallant freeman still to guard
The home of patriot graves!

Both had at times successes won
And both reverses met;

Both captured city, fort, and gun,
And lost them with regret!

Yet closer draws the circling coil
Around the stubborn foe;
The freemen fight on sacred soil,
And on, still on they go!

A stronghold by the river side,
The key to needed stores,
Stands like a kingdom in its pride,
To guard opposing shores.

On this is fixed their eagle eye,
And this, they say, must fall;
They dare the rebel hosts defy,

And thrust them to the wall!

What though the fronting water-bluff Is mounted, steep and high? OL. VII.-POETRY 5

What though the circling rear is rough,
And frowning forts defy?

What though so many times before
In vain the mortars bayed;
While gunboats rained their hail on shore,
And land assaults were made?

Many the plans that failed to raise The dear old banner there; Many the long and weary days

That mocked at toil and care!

But dauntless still that armored host
The rebel hordes defy.

They bide their time at duty's post,
Hope kindling every eye.

The brave commander speaks the word
And on it goes once more;
Again the hostile guns are heard
Along the river shore.

The gauntlet of the plunging fire
Is run with little harm;
Ne'er fails such resolute desire
To brave the wild alarm!

A fleet above, a fleet below, Is ready for the strife, Ready to strike a telling blow For freedom and for life!

The fleet below pours forth its host
Of brave and gallant men,
Like waves upon the white sea-coast
To storm the land again!

Like the wild rushing avalanche
Armed with resistless might,

To crush rebellion root and branch,
They hurry to the fight.

The circling path is rough and long
To gain the stronghold's rear;
The foe they meet is fierce and strong,
But wakes no coward fear.

They boldly meet him on the way
In many a bloody fight;
In all they nobly win the day,
As triumph for the right!

They reap a large and worthy spoil
Of cannon and of men,

The fruit of Hope's heroic toil
Inspiring hope again!

On, on they press their winding way,
A strong and valiant host;
And still they keep the foe at bay,
Despite his wonted boast!

They reach at last the waiting goal,
The frowning forts invest;
The thunders of their cannon roll
To mar the city's rest.

All avenues of flight they guard

With strong and jealous care, Cut off supplies and press them hard With burdens hard to bear.

They boldly make the fierce assault,
The moated walls to scale,
Nor is it yet the heroes' fault

Once and again they fail.

Too steep, too high, too strong, the walls,
Too hot the cannon's breath,
Too thickly fly the deadly balls,
Too many fall in death!

The spade and shovel here must win
If triumph ever come;
Their song must mingle with the din
Of cannon and of drum!

So through the sutlry summer days
They onward dig their way;
Vain all attempts the siege to raise,
Or long their work delay!

The heroes labor long and well,
Slowly the stronghold near,
While day and night fly shot and shell
To keep the foe in fear!

The city proudly bears its scars,
The people hide in caves,

And cursing still the Stripes and Stars,
There many find their graves!

But closer draws the giant coil,

Want stares them in the face,
In vain is all their arduous toil,
They cannot hold the place.
And Vicksburgh by the river side
So long the rebel boast,
Falls from its dizzy height of pride
Before the loyal host.

And on that joyful summer morn,
The great day of the year
That symbols still a nation born,
There waves the flag so dear!

And many a shout goes up that day
In pæans loud and grand,
Long peals of joy to find their way
In echoes through the land;

As for a nation born again
On this its natal day,
Born for a gift of nobler men
Through Freedom's larger sway!

But we have cause for deeper dread,
When she who lifts denouncing hands
A priestess at Love's altar stands,
A priestess bound by holiest vows,
A woman's crown upon her head,
A poet's glory on her brows.

O woman poet! In the dust

We lay our pride-our hearts are sad-
We walked abroad among the glad
Free nations of the earth-more just,
More noble we than all beside-
Till suddenly our triumph died,
And a great awe stole o'er the land.
As one who sees his ship's command
Torn from him by the fateful winds,
As one whom sudden lightning blinds,
We gazed aghast at destiny,

And in our dread remembered thee.

O poet heart of love and light!
Thy curse is just and pure and right,
Approved even in Heaven's own sight.
We can but bear the chastening sign,
And drink the blood poured out for wine,
With patience, till the storm goes by-
And if we perish utterly

We perish. 'Tis no more than meed;
But if in our extremest need,
When sinking just beneath the wave,
We cry to Love, Love yet shall save,
And with soft fingers on shut eyes,
The darkness of the soul surprise,
As once of old in Galilee

He healed the blind and hushed the sea.

My Country! O my lovely Land,
Outspread 'neath heaven by Love's own hand!
How is it with thee? Wilt thou bear
Heaven's wrath till wrath has waked despair!
Too proud to listen love's own call,
Till even love triumph in thy fall-
While other lands redeemed shall rise,
With foreheads lifted to the skies,
With stainless hands and fearless mien,
All thou wert not yet mightst have been-
Whose sons shall speak beneath their breath
Of her who sold her life for death!

Forbid it, Heaven-forbid it, Love-
Forbid it, all ye powers above-
Forbid it, thou who spok'st that curse
Before a listening universe.
Our blessed Land shall rise again—
Let all the people say, AMEN!
CINCINNATI, O.

A CURSE FOR A NATION.

BY MINNIE FRY.

"I heard an angel speak last night,
And he said: 'Write,

Write a nation's curse for me,

And send it over the Western Sea.'"
-E. B. BROWNING.

O Woman crowned with motherhood,
And sphered in song! How couldst thou send
That curse against a kindred blood

With Heaven's long garnered wrath to blend!
A mother's curse the strong man fears
Through all the glory of his years;

LENOX.

BY C. K. TUCKERMAN,

Soft summer sounds salute the air,
Cool country colors greet the eye;
Around the wide piazza chair

The hay-blown breezes swoop and sigh.

The level lawn of gracious green,

The odorous line of gay parterre, The clear cut paths that run betweenContent the claims of cultured care. Near by, the neat New-England town, In latent strength of thrifty ease,

Scatters its squares of red and brown
Beneath the old familiar trees.

The white church gleaming on the hill
Beside its patch of village graves,
Lifts, like a lighthouse, calm and still,
Above the dark green swell of waves.
Beyond the vale the landscape looms
In mountain masses, crowned with firs,
Save where the golden chestnut blooms,

Or where the silver birch tree stirs
Low at their feet, in sweet surprise,

Repeating every varied hue,

The Mountain Mirror" scoops the skies,
And laughs in sunshine and in blue.

And over all sublimely broods

The spirit, by Nature only taught; And all is peace, save where intrudes

One dark, deep shade of human thought.
Embraced within her mountain arms,

Few fairer scenes the eye have met:
Would that the soul knew no alarms-
Would that the gazer could forget!
Forget the far-off strife, that shakes
His country's glory into shame;

Forget the misery that makes

A by-word of the nation's name!

Forget that she, who years ago,

Brought Freedom forth, in throes and tears,
Now lies in second labor low,
Convulsed in agony and fears.

God grant swift safety to the land:
God haste the peace-returning morn
When our great Mother yet shall stand
Triumphant with her second born!

Then, like this fair and favored place,

Shall the Republic's grandeur be;
For she shall look from heights of grace,
And undiminished glory see.

Like this, shall glow her atmosphere
Bannered by day with blue and white,
While all her stars shall reäppear

To shame the shadows of her night.

THE SERGEANT'S COT.
The door-stone fowl affrighted fly,
For the wary hawk with thievish eye,
Gloats eddying in the morning sky.

With wide, fell swoop, the airy king
Drops cruelly on one poor thing,
Denied the cover of its mother's wing.

One piteous flutter and a plaint-no more!
Two wondering faces from the cottage door
Peer as the victor with his prey sails o'er.

There were bitter tears and tenderness
Within that cot, for little Bess
Could hardly brook one chick the less.

The kitten gambolled, the pet linnet sung;
All day old Monument's shadow, swung-
She mused and sobbed-her heart was wrung.

The mother took her to her arms, and said: "Thy chick my child, is gone, is dead, But a kind All-Father rules o'erhead. "Such little chastenings are meant To probe the secrets in our being pent, Like sun and storm in rainbow blent. "Your father, Bess!" 'twas hard to see His parting look for you and me; His country called-such things must be. "But 'twas a pang we felt we owed For all the land on us bestowed; We faltered-but we've borne the load." Just then the post-train screeched in sight, Glimpsed on its way with throbbing light, With tidings fraught-shall they be of blight? 'Twas farmer John came up the road He drove his oxen with restless goad; He left a pallor on that drear abode.

'Twas said: "The Tenth had suffered most,
And one brave Sergeant of the host,
Fell with the colors at his bloody post."

The kitten gambolled, the pet linnet sung;
The orphaned Bessie at her girdle hung;
The widow sank-her heart was wrung.

THE FOLLOWING LINES

Were found in a bundle of Socks, sent by a "Lively Old Lady," in Amherst, N. H., to the U. S. Hospital, corner of Broad and Cherry streets, Philadelphia.

By the fireside, cosily seated,

With spectacles riding her nose,
The lively old lady is knitting
A wonderful pair of hose.
She pities the shivering soldier,
Who is out in the pelting storm;
And busily plies her needles,

To keep him hearty and warm.

Her eyes are reading the embers,

But her heart is off to the war,
For she knows what those brave fellows
Are gallantly fighting for.
Her fingers as well as her fancy

Are cheering them on their way,
Who, under the good old banner,
Are saving their Country to-day.

She ponders, how in her childhood,
Her grandmother used to tell-
The story of barefoot soldiers,
Who fought so long and well.
And the men of the Revolution
Are nearer to her than us;
And that perhaps is the reason
Why she is toiling thus.

She cannot shoulder a musket,
Nor ride with cavalry crew,
But nevertheless she is ready

To work for the boys who do.
And yet in "official despatches,"
That come from the army or fleet,
Her feats may have never a notice,
Though ever so mighty the feet!

So prithee, proud owner of muscle,
Or purse-proud owner of stocks,
Don't sneer at the labors of woman,
Or smile at her bundle of socks.
Her heart may be larger and braver
Than his who is tallest of all,
The work of her hands as important
As cash that buys powder and ball.
And thus while her quiet performance
Is being recorded in rhyme,
The tools in her tremulous fingers
Are running a race with Time.
Strange that four needles can form
A perfect triangular bound;
And equally strange that their antics
Result in perfecting "the round."

And now, while beginning "to narrow,"
She thinks of the Maryland mud,
And wonders if ever the stocking

Will wade to the ankle in blood.
And now she is "shaping the heel,"
And now she ready is "to bind,"
And hopes if the soldier is wounded,
It never will be from behind.

"

And now she is "raising the instep,"
Now "narrowing off at the toe,'
And prays that this end of the worsted
May ever be turned to the foe.
She "gathers" the last of the stitches,
As if a new laurel were won,
And placing the ball in the basket,
Announces the stocking as "done."

Ye men who are fighting our battles,
Away from the comforts of life,
Who thoughtfully muse by your camp-fires,
On sweetheart, or sister, or wife;
Just think of their elders a little,

And pray for the grandmothers too,
Who, patiently sitting in corners,

Are knitting the stockings for you.
S. E. B.

'CUTENESS OF A CONTRABAND SCOUT.-A private letter from West-Point, Va., narrates an exciting adventure which befell a negro scout in the employ of the Union forces, and his shrewdness in escaping from the rebels. His name is Claiborne, and he is a full-blooded African, with big lips, flat nose, etc. He has lived in the vicinity all his life, and is therefore familiar with the country, which renders him a very valuable scout. On Claiborne's last trip inside the enemy's lines, after scouting around as much as he wished, he picked up eight chickens and started for camp. His road led past the house of a secesh doctor named Roberts, who knows him, and who ordered him to stop, which, of course, Claiborne had no idea of doing, and kept on, when the doctor fired on him and gave chase, shouting at the top of his voice. The negro was making good time toward camp, when all at once he was confronted by a whole regiment of rebel soldiers, who ordered him to halt. For a moment the scout was dumbfounded, and thought his hour had come, but the next he sung out:

"The Yankees are coming! the Yankees are com

ing!"

of woods," returned Sambo. "Dr. R. sent me down to tell you to come up quick, or they'll kill the whole of us."

"Come in, come into camp," said the soldiers.

"No, no," says the 'cute African, "I have got to go down and tell the cavalry pickets, and can't wait a second." So off he sprang with a bound, running for dear life, the rebs, discovering the ruse, chasing him for three miles, and he running six, when he got safely into camp, but minus his chickens, which he dropped at the first fire.

INCIDENTS OF CHICKAMAUGA.

CHATTANOOGA, TENN., September 24, 1863. The two armies are now confronting each other in the immediate vicinity of the town of Chattanooga. After the two days' battle of the nineteenth and twentieth, the line of the Federal army occupied a position eight miles from the town-the left, with General Thomas, maintaining its former front, while the right and centre had fallen back some two miles from its former position.

From the superior force of the rebels in our front, and the great extent of line which the Federals were necessarily forced to defend, after holding the enemy at bay for forty-eight hours, our lines were withdrawn within the support of the works which had been thrown up by the enemy previous to their evacuation of this place. The enemy having been so severely punished in the late conflict, were slow in following us to our present established line.

They held back as if to give us full opportunity for a successful recrossing of the Tennessee River. But General Rosecrans did not see proper to take advantage of these favorable designs of the enemy. On retiring to Chattanooga, instead of placing the Tennessee between his forces and those of the rebels, he immediately called around him his generals, and in a few words explained to them his future intended plans.

"This place is to be held at all hazards; we here make the big fight, be the strength of the enemy what it may. Beyond this point the army of the Cumberland will not retire while there is a foe to menace it!" General St. Clair Morton, Chief of Engineers, immediately set about to put the place in a defensible con dition for the warm welcome of the enemy.

The Nationals at present occupy the works previ ously constructed by the rebels to prevent the approach of the Yankees. The former strength of these works the enemy know full well.

But they have now been made more complete, enlarged and improved upon by those whose approach they were first intended to resist.

The enemy have been constantly moving around us since our retirement to this place. Large bodies of cavalry, infantry, and artillery are to be seen moving along the heights and through the valleys and plains beyond our present limits. They have been trying the range of their guns upon our position, but have not as yet succeeded in the accomplishment of any advantage to themselves or injury to the Nationals. Their shot and shell have all fallen harmless to the earth. They are distinctly to be seen in very strong force, in successive lines of battle, on the hillsides and in the bottoms.