He is acting o’er the battle,
With his cap and feather gay,
Singing out his soldier prattle,
In a mockish, manly way—
With the boldest, bravest footstep,
Treading firmly up and down,
And his banner waving softly
O’er his boyish locks of brown.
And I sit beside him sewing,
With a busy heart and hand,
For the gallant soldiers going
To the far-off battle-land;
And I gaze upon my jewel,
In his baby-spirit bold,
My little blue-eyed soldier,
Just a second summer old.
Still a deep, deep well of feeling,
In my mother’s heart is stirred,
And the tears come softly stealing
At each imitative word.
There’s a struggle in my bosom,
For I love my darling boy—
He’s the gladness of my spirit,
He’s the sunlight of my joy!
Yet I think upon my country,
And my spirit groweth bold,
Oh! I wish my blue-eyed soldier
Were but twenty summers old!

I would speed him to the battle,
I would arm him for the fight,
I would give him to his country,
For his country’s wrong and right!
I would nerve his hand with blessing,
From the “God of Battles” won;
With His helmet and His armor,
I would cover o’er my son.
Oh! I know there’d be a struggle,
For I love my darling boy;
He’s the gladness of my spirit,
He’s the sunlight of my joy!
Yet in thinking of my country,
Oh! my spirit groweth bold;
And I wish my blue-eyed soldier
Were but twenty summers old.

THE VIRGINIANS OF THE VALLEY.

BY FRANK TICKNOR, M. D.

Sic Jurat.

The knightliest of the knightly race,
Who, since the days of old,
Have kept the lamp of chivalry
Alight in hearts of gold;
The kindliest of the kindly band
Who rarely hated ease,
Who rode with Smith around the land
And Raleigh round the seas!
Who climbed the blue Virginia hills,
Amid embattled foes,
And planted there, in valleys fair,
The lily and the rose;
Whose fragrance lives in many lands,
Whose beauty stars the earth,
And lights the hearths of many homes
With loveliness and worth!
We thought they slept! the sons who kept
The names of noble sires,
And slumbered while the darkness crept
Around their vigil fires!
But still the Golden Horseshoe knights,
Their Old Dominion keep,
Whose foes have found enchanted ground,
But not a knight asleep.
Torch Hall, Ga.

C. S. A.

BY FATHER ABRAM J. RYAN.