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Here's to his health,

Honor and wealth!
Hip, hip, hooray! wid all hilarity,
Hip, hip, hooray! that's the way,
All at once, widout disparity!

One more cheer

For our docther dear,
The king of his kind and the crame of all charity.

Hip, hip, Hooray!


JEFF. H. NONES. Then came the memorable order from Burnside, which must have thrillod every member of the regiment: Tell Sturgis to send the Ffty-first Pennsylvania to take the bridge.'”

Along the valley's narrow gorge

The morning mist outspread,
Wbile rifle-pit and breastwork strong

Frowned grimly overhead.
The sluggish stream that only served

To slake the thirst of kine,
Was soon to see another sight

When men were formed in line.
Along the crest a flash of fire

Breaks red against the sky;
Along the hillside's narrow slope

Comes back the quick reply.
Ferraro dashes up in haste,

His countenance aflame,
"The Fifty-first must storm the bridge."

'Twas thus the order came.
* Fix bayonets !over Hartranft's face

A strange, calm smile was seen,
The red blood flushed his dusky cheek-

His dark eyes were agleam.
Sturgis and Cook in vain essayed,

And others yet may try;
And now the gallant Fifty-first

Must storm the bridge or die.
Bright flashed the sword their leader drew

Charge ! "-Like a simoon's blast,


The Fifty-first mid shot and shell

Dashed on the bridge is passed;
The beaten foe in wild retreat

Is flying o'er the ridge,
Huzzal buzza! The Fifty-first

Has stormed Antietam's bridge!
O men of Pennsylvania!

Along your bloody route
Lies many a comrade dull of ear

Who cannot hear your shout;
But o'er your country's wide domain

A pæan grand shall burst;
A nation's accolade be thing

O gallant Fifty-first!

MAKE ROOM IN HEAVEN.*-HORACE B. DURANT. Little Americus, a child of seven years, gifted with extraordinary musical balent, and who was compelled to exert himself beyond his years, died in Boston, a few years ago, of disease of the heart. His last words were, “Merciful God, malo room for a little fellow"

Make room in heaven! A gifted child of song,
All weary lies upon his humble couch,
Oppressed with fitful, fev'rish slumber. Child,
Indeed, he is. His sunny curls half hide
A brow such as, methinks, the angels wear,
Could they appear to mortal vision. From
Beneath the long and silken lashes, that
Bestow such sad and thoughtful charm upon
His face, a single tear has stolen out.
The sleeper dreams--perchance, some wondrous dream
Of joy or sorrow. Earth has been to him,
Indeed, a long and lingering scene of care
And toil and weariness, in which the days
Were weeks, and months were years; for so, at least
They seem to every childish heart, though e'er
So joyous.

What a grand, reflective theme
Is childhood! What unfathomed, boundless depths
Of mystic being, rise from out the dawn
Of ebbing life, and dimly sweep away
Beyond our gaze! What thoughts unuttered, or

Unutterable, flit athwart the soul *Written expressly see this Collection,

That newly born from paradise into
This lower, sinning world, with wondering oyo
Beholds its shifting scenes!

All is still;
The midnight chime is tolling out, across
The mighty city's deep repose, yet it
Awakens not the slumberer. To him,
Wbat now is all that hollow praise, that on
Last famous eve, arose from brilliant throng
Enchanted by his thrilling strains ? What nou
Are all the gorgeous drapery and glare
And pomp, with which his childish genius has
Thus far been heralded? What now, to him,
Are fashion's gilded offerings-ah, what
Have they been ever, but the blood-stained price
That greedy avarice has clutched, as the
Exchange for all that untold wealth of peace
And sunshine, robbed from his young years? He boede
Them not; he sees them not; he wants but rest,-
A little "room” within this crowding world,
That presses close, like boist'rous, wrecking waves
About his feeble life.

He slumbers on-
How calm his rest! The early blush of dawn,
Begins once more to tinge the eastern skies,
And night is waning fast; yet, still he sleeps
O blessed sleep, to weary mortals thou
Art next best friend to death! Behold that smile
That lights his features with a transient flash,
Like some unearthly glory! It was such
As might have streamed from golden gates of bliss,
As for a moment, they rolled back before
Some passing angel, and then sudden closed
Again. His hands are clasped, and upward raised,
As if in earnest supplication. Hark!
He prays—“Merciful God, make room
For a little fellow !” His prayer goes straight
Unto the throne of Light.

The morning rose
Upon another day, and hasty steps
Of passers to and fro, were heard within
The streets. Into that quiet chamber, where
The boy lay slumbering, the early ray
Stole tenderly, and gazed upon his face

Inquiringly; but waked him not. So let
Him rest; for when the evening hour sbal como
Again, he must appear before the gay
And careless multitude that shall await,
Impatiently, his presence.

Nearer draw
Onto the couch. The listless bands lie crossed
Upon his placid bosom. See, a smile
Still lingers on his gently parted lips.
There seems to be a strange and solemn hush
Pervading all the room. Can this, indeed,
Be sleep? Here, place your hand upon his brow;
How cold-how icy cold! It startles you!
He is not sleeping-he is dead!

Poor childi
Oppressed beyond thy years; forced to perform
A task beyond thy strength; no sympathy
For thee, no thought, no reason, but a vain
Ambition, and a thirst for gain-alas!
How many are there like to thee! Thou art
At rest; thy plea is answered ; and although
No room was found for thee on earth, thou best
Pound room in heaven.

A pious parson good and true

Was crossing o'er the seas,
When suddenly there fiercely blew

A wild and sweeping breeze.
He feared the storm the ship would wreck,

His heart was sore afraid,
He sought the captain on the deck

And found him undismayed.
The captain saw his awful fear

And led him up to where
The servant of the Lord could hear

The sailors loudly swear.
*You clearly see,” the captain said,

"If danger hovered nigh,
They'd all be on their knees instead

And asking grace to dia"

The parson felt his words were true,
And when the skies


He marveled how the sailors knew

Just when to pray or swear.
But when the seas which wildly flowed

Had ceased to plunge and spout,
Unto himself he said: “It showed

They know wbat they're about.”
But, later on, another storm

Came fiercer than before.
The parson heard with wild alarm

The ocean's angry roar.
He sought the deck in awful dread

To near the sailors get;
He listened-then he bowed his head:

“Thank God, they're swearing yet.”


REPO'TED BY DAN'L HANDY OF SUGAR HILL. De subjeck app'inted fur debate last Sadday night were, * Ef a man have a watermillion vine growin' clost to de fence, an' dat vine run over de fence into his naber's yard an' grows a watermillion dar, who do dat million b’long to ?

As dis were a question tetchin' on pints er de law, an' it hed been norated aroun' among de members dat bre'r Chrismus Towns was a gwineter mek one er his famous perfessional speeches, ev’ybody 'spected dar would be a mighty incitin' debate; an’so bre'r Edom, bre'r Juber an' bre'r Thusaleh, dey was app'inted empires to jedge which side got de besgest er de argyment.

Bre'r Jerry Flagg was de fust to tek de fld. He lowed dat he thunk de watermillion oughter b’long, uf rights, to de one on whose lan’de vine growed. “'Caze," sez he, “dat vine aint got no bisniss a-runnin' off fum whar hit was planted, no mo'n a hoss or a hog aint got none a-runnin' off fum de medder whar dey feeds; an' * Dy permission of the Author,

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