Sitting there that summer morning he thought, too, how since his youth,
His whole life had ever been, as 'twere, a lone one, how in sooth
He had never since that hour—and his years how great the sum!—
He had never known the blessing of a wife, or child, or home.
And, ah, now he fast was nearing—sad old man!—the end of life,
Soon he should lay by his armour and go forth beyond the strife.
And he tho't—"O, ere I go hence, if the one who gave me birth
Could but come from yonder Heaven, only come once more to earth;
"That again, as in my childhood, I might look upon her face,
Feel once more, once more, the pressure of her loving, dear embrace,
Hear her speak, ah, as she used to, those sweet words I so much miss,
Feel upon my cheek and forehead the touch of her fragrant kiss!"
And the sad old soldier's eyelids closed, his lips they moved no more;
He had gone to sleep where often he had gone to sleep before!—
So his comrades tho't that hour as they saw him sitting there,
Leaning fondly 'gainst the flagstaff, on his face a look most fair!
And they left him to his slumbers, with no wish to break the spell
Which had come to him so gently—the old soul they loved so well!
And the breezes so delightful played among his locks so white,
While above him proudly floated the old flag of his delight.
But ere long, when loved ones round him called the name of "Sergeant Gray,"
Not a word the veteran answered, for his life had passed away.—
Though a tear was on each pale cheek of the dead one whom they saw—
The old soldier of the regiment on guard at Mackinaw.
Geo. Newell Lovejoy.
* * * * *
POOR LITTLE STEPHEN GERARD.
The man lived in Philadelphia who, when young and poor, entered a bank, and says he, "Please, sir, don't you want a boy?" And the stately personage said: "No, little boy, I don't want a little boy." The little boy, whose heart was too full for utterance, chewing a piece of liquorice stick he had bought with a cent stolen from his good and pious aunt, with sobs plainly audible, and with great globules of water rolling down his cheeks, glided silently down the marble steps of the bank. Bending his noble form, the bank man dodged behind a door, for he thought the little boy was going to shy a stone at him. But the little boy picked up something, and stuck it in his poor but ragged jacket. "Come here, little boy," and the little boy did come here; and the bank man said: "Lo, what pickest thou up?" And he answered and replied: "A pin." And the bank man said: "Little boy, are you good?" and he said he was. And the bank man said: "How do you vote?—excuse me, do you go to Sunday school?" and he said he did. Then the bank man took down a pen made of pure gold, and flowing with pure ink, and he wrote on a piece of paper, "St. Peter;" and he asked the little boy what it stood for, and he said "Salt Peter." Then the bank man said it meant "Saint Peter." The little boy said: "Oh!"