I knew him, I tell you! And, also, I knew When he fell on the battle-swept ridge, That the poor battered body that lay there in blue Was only a plank in the bridge Over which some should pass to fame That shall shine while the high stars shall shine. Your hero is known by an echoing name, But the man of the musket is mine.
I knew him! All through him the good and the bad Ran together and equally free; But I judge as I trust Christ will judge the brave lad, For death made him noble to me. In the cyclone of war, in the battle’s eclipse, Life shook out its lingering sands, And he died with the names that he loved on his lips, His musket still grasped in his hands. Up close to the flag my soldier went down, In the salient front of the line: You may take for your hero the men of renown, But the man of the musket is mine. H. S. Taylor, in The Century.
A TOUGH CUSTOMER.
Let me tell you a tale that was once told to me; And although it was told me in prose at the time, I will give it a metrical dressing, and see If the story will lose any reason by rhyme.
There came to the store in a village, one day, A long and lank stranger in homespun arrayed; And “Good-mornin’,” said he in a diffident way, “I’ve jes’ come up to town for a bit of a trade.”
The proprietor nodded, and cheerily spoke,— “Well, what can I do for you, neighbor, and how?” “Wal, one of wife’s knittin’-needles ez broke, An’ she wants me to git one—how much be they, now?”
“They’re two cents apiece.”—“Wal, say, mister, look here: I’ve got a fresh egg, an’ my wife sez to me, ‘Swap the egg for the needle;’ it seems a bit queer. But the thing’s about even—it’s a big un, yer see.”
Said the storekeeper presently, “Well, I don’t mind.” He laid down the needle, and put the egg by— When the countryman blurted out, “Ain’t yer inclined To treat a new customer? Fact is, I’m dry.”