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softening vision of a curly head asleep on a snowy pillow, and of blue

eyes
far
away

like those that looked into his now from a wounded foeman's face. But the old question of right and wrong, that had seemed so great when the black guns that frowned upon the evening scene had been wheeled into place, and the early sunlight flashed on bayonet and sword, dwindled away before the veiled face of the mighty angel, Death, that hovered near, and the God-born touch of nature that makes the whole world kin spoke in the gray.

“Are you hurt much, my boy? ” "To death, I'm afraid, sir."

“Ah, but perhaps not! Let's see." And slowly and painfully he crawled the few feet that lay between them, but one glance at the jagged breast wound under the blue coat showed him that the lad was right, and, exhausted by the effort, he sank down by the other's side.

When he came to, a hand was laving his brow with water from an old canteen, a hand feeble in touch and slow, but gentle as a girl's.

"I was afraid you were gone, sir," said the boy, faintly smiling at him.

“Not yet, but we're going home together, lad, and we're nearly there."

There was silence between the two for awhile as the kindly twilight enwrapped the dreadful spectacle of shattered, bleeding humanity in her violet mantle, but presently a sob broke from the boy, whose dawning manhood caught it back in shame.

" I'm not crying for myself, sir. Don't you think that, for I believe I could face death as well as anyone, but I can't help thinking of my mother. I'm all she's got now, for my father we at Bull Run and my brothers—both of them—at Chancellorsville. I can see her now, sir, sitting on the dear old porch with its clematis vine, where I will never rest again, straining her eyes down the road for my coming, for I was promised a furJough and was to have had it to-morrow, and now I'm dying a thousand miles away! And Greeley-he's my dog, that I played with when I was a little chap-I can see him, too, running down to the orchard gate looking for me, for I told him good-bye there, with his honest brown eyes trying to make out where I've gone, and coming slowly back to lay his head on my mother's knee. I got a letter yesterday, telling me all about it, and how every day they lay my plate for me and set my chair, and have doughnuts for tea, just as they used to do when I was a boy and coming home from school.”

“And I," said the Confederate, with his eyes dim and a quiver in his bearded lips, “ leave desolate a little brown house on a grim old mountain's side, not many miles away, where one patient little woman awaits for me beside a crib, with two little girls close to her knee that talk of father's coming' by and by. They'll gather to-night around the table, with the bright lamp on it that I used to watch shining down the road like a loving message as I plodded up the mountain side.”

And so upon the golden stars the foemen gazed and talked of home in tender reminiscence, till, as those stars paled before the moon climbing higher and higher in the clear dome above them, there fell a silence that was the benediction of a pitying God upon his wandering, wounded children. And when the morning came, the busy surgeons and those that searched the field for miss. ing friends came upon a strange, pathetic sight. The two that lay beneath the green oak's spreading boughs with death's solemn seal on their quiet faces were clasping hands, blue and gray forgotten in the old, old bond of common brotherhood.

GOING ON AN ERRAND.
"A pound of tea at one-and-three,

And a pot of raspberry jam,
Two new-laid eggs, a dozen pegs,

And a pound of rashers of ham.”

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Ml say it over all the way,

And then I'm sure not to forget,
For if I chance to bring things wrong

My mother gets in such a pet.
"A pound of tea at one-and-three,

And a pot of raspberry jam,
Two new-laid eggs, a dozen pegs,

And a pound of rashers of ham."
There in the bay the children play-

They're having such jolly fun;
I'll go there, too, that's what I'll do,

As soon as my errands are done.
"A pound of tea at one-and-three,

A pot of-er--new-laid jam,
Two raspberry eggs, with a dozen pegs,

And a pound of rashers of ham.”
There's Teddy White a-flying his kite,

He thinks himself grand, I declare;
I'd like to try to fly it sky high,

Ever so much higher

Than the old church spire,
And then-and then-but there
"A pound of three and one at tea,

A pot of new-laid jam,
Two dozen eggs, some raspberry pegs,

And a pound of rashers of ham.”
Now here's the shop, outside I'll stop,

And run through my orders again;
I haven't forgot-no, ne'er a jot-

It shows I'm pretty cute, that's plain.
"A pound of three at one and tea,

A dozen of raspberry ham,
A pot of eggs, with a dozen pegs,

And a rasher of new-laid jam."

THE HARVEST. I watch the golden billows awaiting the sickles keen, While the corn stands waiting yonaer, a splendid, glittering

sheen ; I hear the reapers coming with merry shout and song, Then I see the bidows falling in solid ranks along.

The grain not only falling, but the tender flowers, too,
And with them tares and thistles are scattered through and

through;
For the reaper reaps a harvest that is heavy for the blade,
While the voice of the master calleth, “It must not be

delayed!”

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And thus is the mighty harvest in all our glorious land,
The reaper blithe and happy, there is joy on every hand;
For the toil is sweet to the faithful, reward will come at

last,
So the reaper sings and labors until daylight hours are past.
I see the harvest over, and mountains of golden grain
Await the thresher's pleasure, and it shall not wait in vain;
For I hear the hum of engines and clatter of turning wheels-
Let us wait a moment-linger-and see what this reveals.
You know what we see, good farmer, in fields now brown

and bare;
Where the grain is kept from the thistles, from thistle and

from tare; And only the grain is wanted, the thistles are cast away, While the flowers that died and withered shall bloom anoth

er day.

I see another harvest in the grain fields of this life,
The wheat is bent and shaken with labor sore, and strife;
But the reaper cometh often, with footsteps soft as air;
Hie takes the grain and flowers, the thistle and the tare.
The harvest is ever ripening to the reaper's subtle breath,-
To the knife of this silent reaper, whose mystic name is

Death;
And we know not the bour of his coming, whether at night

or day,
Nor why he should spare the thistle and take our flowers

away. In this living and mighty harvest we are grain or worthless

chaff'; We cannot serve two masters --God wants no work by half; And I pray, when the harvest is over, at the garnering of

the wheat, ( with the grain and flowers, may kneel at the Master's feet.

-Good Housekeeping.

OLD LETTERS.-WILLIAM J. BENNERS, JR.

By permission of the Author.
Loud and wild the storm is howling,

But no thought it brings to me
Save a thankfulness in knowing

None I love are on the sea.
Closely shut within my chamber,

Where the fire is burning bright,
All these letters, long since written,

I will read a !d burn to-night :

Piles of letters, old and yellow.

With my name upon them all;
Good for nothing, less than nothing,

Is each scarce remembered scrawl;
Yet old mem'ries rise before me,

Half of pleasure, half of pain,
And fair scenes almost forgotten

Brighten into life again.

Here a dainty school-girl's letter

Still retains its faint perfume;
But the little hand that wrote it

Moulders in a foreign tomb.
On a lonely, lonely island,

There with strangers by her side
Is the grave o'erhung with cypress

Where they laid her when she died.

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