As the arms are finished, they are sent away to the various Government arsenals,—those made in New England to Watertown, Mass.,—where they remain until the exigencies of the service require them. At the present time, there is a sufficient number of new rifled muskets of the best qualify stored in the various arsenals to arm the entire levy about to be called into the field,—and should the war continue so long, there will be enough manufactured during the next twelve months for a new levy of over one million of men. These arms, it must be remembered, are entirely independent of those ordered by the respective State governments, which would swell the amount very largely.
THE PEWEE.
The listening Dryads hushed the woods;
The boughs were thick, and thin and few
The golden ribbons fluttering through;
Their sun-embroidered, leafy hoods
The lindens lifted to the blue:
Only a little forest-brook
The farthest hem of silence shook:
When in the hollow shades I heard—
Was it a spirit, or a bird?
Or, strayed from Eden, desolate,
Some Feri calling to her mate,
Whom nevermore her mate would cheer?
"Pe-ri! Pe-ri! Peer!"
Through rocky clefts the brooklet fell
With plashy pour, that scarce was sound,
But only quiet less profound,
A stillness fresh and audible:
A yellow leaflet to the ground
Whirled noiselessly: with wing of gloss
A hovering sunbeam brushed the moss,
And, wavering brightly over it,
Sat like a butterfly alit:
The owlet in his open door
Stared roundly: while the breezes bore
The plaint to far-off places drear,—
"Pe-ree! pe-ree! peer!"
To trace it in its green retreat
I sought among the boughs in vain;
And followed still the wandering strain,
So melancholy and so sweet
The dim-eyed violets yearned with pain.
Long-drawn and clear its closes were,—
As if the hand of Music through
The sombre robe of Silence drew
A thread of golden gossamer:
So sweet a flute the fairy blew.
Like beggared princes of the wood,
In silver rags the birches stood;
The hemlocks, lordly counsellors,
Were dumb; the sturdy servitors,
In beechen jackets patched and gray,
Seemed waiting spellbound all the day
That low entrancing note to hear,—
"Pe-wee! pe-wee! peer!"
I quit the search, and sat me down
Beside the brook, irresolute,
And watched a little bird in suit
Of sober olive, soft and brown,
Perched in the maple-branches, mute:
With greenish gold its vest was fringed,
Its tiny cap was ebon-tinged,
With ivory pale its wings were barred,
And its dark eyes were tender-starred.
"Dear bird," I said, "what is thy name?"
And thrice the mournful answer came,
So faint and far, and yet so near,—
"Pe-wee! Pe-wee! Peer!"