"We march two hundred thousand strong,
And that's a sight, my baby beauty,
To quicken silence into song
And glorify the soldier's duty."
"It's very, very grand, I know,"
The little maid gave soft replying;
"And Father, Mother, Brother too,
All say 'Hurrah' while I am crying;
"But think—O Mr. Soldier, think,—
How many little sisters' brothers
Are going all away to fight
And may be killed, as well as others!"
"Why, bless thee, child," the Sergeant said,
His brawny hand her curls caressing,
"'Tis left for little ones like thee
To find that War's not all a blessing."
And "Bless thee!" once again he cried;
Then cleared his throat and looked indignant,
And marched away with wrinkled brow
To stop the struggling tear benignaut.
And still the ringing shouts went up
From doorway, thatch, and fields of tillage;
The pall behind the standard seen
By one alone of all the village.
The oak and cedar bend and writhe
When roars the wind through gap and braken;
But 'tis the tenderest reed of all
That trembles first when Earth is shaken.
ROBERT HENRY NEWELL.
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