the man I pursued-till at length we were level. A short, sharp struggle, and the colors were mine, the Russian trooper dead. How I got back I don't know: the next thing I remember is bending over our ensign, and putting the colors, all blood-stained and bullet-riddled, into his hands. And hark! above the rattle of the gradually ceasing fusillade rise ringing shouts. The great Battle of Inkerman is fought: who has won it? Thank What are those triumphant voices shouting God! for they are crying "Hurrah!" and "Vive'l Empereur!"-the allies have conquered. "Sergeant!" said my dying officer-"if ever you get back to the dear old country, tell them-father and mother I mean-that I died with the colors in my hand." The end was coming quickly. With an effort he raised his hand and broke from the colors a strip hanging only by a thread or two, saying, ""Tis the best thing I can leave you, sergeant--take it, for of all the brave hearts here, living and dead, yours is the bravest." Then the summons came for the roll-call we must all answer; and he whispered, "Good-bye, comrade"-and fell in. Close, fast and thick, O gathering shades of eventide, over the field of battle. Hide thy light, O setting sun,-blood-red, as though the field of carnage were reflected in thy face. Oh! moon and stars, shine not to-night upon a scene like this. I was wending my way slowly back to the tents some hours after the last shot had been fired, when a sudden gleam of light revealed a sight which seems never to have faded from my mind. Stretched on the cold ground, wet with evening dew and scarlet streams of blood, her eyes half closed, her fair white hands clasped together in prayerful attitude, a look of ineffable peace upon her pale, delicate features, lay a Sister of Mercy. Oh, rightly are they called so, the God of Mercy bless them! By her side were the food and wine and medicine she had brought wherewith to succor the wounded. But alas! dear sister, never more shall thy tender hands and kindly voice fulfil their offices of love, for from the pure and gentle heart which inspired them, blood is surging slowly through the black dress. Oh, I pray God that the bullet which has struck thee was fired not wilfullyand may the Good Shepherd gather thee to His bosom, poor lamb! Then I knelt by her side, and reverently covered with the silken strip of our regiment's banner what was in very truth the noblest, bravest heart on the field of Inkerman. Very tenderly I carried her to her sisters in the rear, and on the day following the morrow of her death I saw her buried, with the beautiful rites of her Church. And my thoughts often wander to a little grave some thousands of miles away, on the rough headstone of which is written the name of Sister Ruth. THE CURTSY.*-ROBERT C. V. MEYERS. Mrs. Chertsy loved to curtsy A mayor was somewhat rare, Used to curtsy Said she, "I must agree And yet, upon my word, I must to London town Where the king walks up and down, So polite, I have heard say That he bows the livelong day To the people he goes by So I'll curtsy," Said Mrs. Chertsy, *Written expressly for this Collection. To London town she went, Was how he'd see her curtsy, For the king to bow so low One fine morning, without warning, And the laughs and talk were loud, But as quiet as a mouse Was little Mrs. Chertsy. Said she, "I came to curtsy, Not to laugh and talk, not I, Till the king goes by." Then the king, with robe and ring, His crown on, and a thing Called a sceptre in his hand, Appeared upon the Mall. The people one and all Shouted, and the band Struck up, "God save the King," And the king bowed, and the crowd Threw up their hats and yelled. Then the king saw Mrs. Chertsy And her curtsy. And he said, "I bow-I-I But no one dared to bow To me ere now, As I went by." The word was passed along To the court that was a throng Of fifty-seven score, Or more; That all should bow to her The king bowed to, while she Should curtsy, curtsy, curtsy, Away till there should be The king bowed, and the same While the crowd Cheered loud, then very loud, English, French and German, By hundreds came they on, And each one bowed and bowed It took just seven hours By the clock in St. Paul's steeple→ Never," said the people, "By all the kingly powers, But Mrs. Chertsy made her curtsy, She paler grew and paler, Then quicker, even faster, And more fast-and the plaster Of her paint and powder passed her, Like dust from a pilaster, And her curls she thought would last her And her neck of alabaster Grew prickly and harassed her, As she curtsied quick and quicker, While the crowd drank strengthening liquor, Which made them cheer unmildly, And they shrieked with laughter wildly, Made her curtsy, Till dizzy grew the king, And snatching off his ring, He cried "Tis his who stops her!" Her body anywhere, Her bones strewed all the stones, Yet despite the people's groans, Her cap, her curls Made polite whirls; Her arms, her feet Made bends most neat; Her bones they danced, Fell back, advanced; Moved up and down, And all of her and hers just pranced, Going faster, faster, faster With a speed that none could master,- PERONELLA. Beauty and rags were the portion possessed SY |