"You did? Shake hands,-O, ain't I glad;
For if I do look grim and rough,
I've got some feelin'-

People think
A soldier's heart is mighty tough;
But, Harry, when the bullets fly,
And hot saltpeter flames and smokes,
While whole battalions lie afield,

One's apt to think about his folks.

"And so you saw them-when? and where?
The old man-is he hearty yet?
And mother-does she fade at all?
Or does she seem to pine and fret
For me? And Sis?-has she grown tall?
And did you see her friend-you know
That Annie Moss-

(How this pipe chokes!)

Where did you see her?-tell me, Hal,
A lot of news about our folks.

"You saw them in the church-you say;
It's likely, for they 're always there.
Not Sunday? no? A funeral? Who?
Who, Harry? how you shake and stare!
All well, you say, and all were out;

What ails you, Hal? Is this a hoax?
Why don't you tell me, like a man,
What is the matter with our folks?"

"I said all well, old comrade, true;

I say all well, for He knows best
Who takes the dear ones in His arms,
Before the sun goes to the west.
The axe-man Death deals right and left,
And flowers fall as well as oaks;
And so-

Fair Annie blooms no more!
And that's the matter with your folks.

"See, this long curl was kept for you;
And this white blossom from her breast;

And here your sister Bessie wrote
A letter, telling all the rest.

Bear up, old friend."

Nobody speaks;

"Boys, be still;

Only the old camp raven croaks,

And soldiers whisper:

There's some bad news from Grainger's folks."

He turns his back-the only foe

That ever saw it-on this grief,

And, as men will, keeps down the tears
Kind Nature sends to Woe's relief.

Then answers he:

"Ah, Hal, I'll try;

But in my throat there's something chokes,
Because, you see, I've thought so long
To count her in among our folks.

"I s'pose she must be happy now,
But still I will keep thinking too,
I could have kept all trouble off,
By being tender, kind, and true.
But maybe not.

She's safe up there,
And when the Hand deals other strokes,
She 'll stand by Heaven's gate, I know,

And wait to welcome in our folks."

Ethel Lynn.

AULD ROBIN GRAY.

When the sheep are in the fauld, and the kye at hame, And a' the warld to sleep are gane,

The waes o' my heart fa' in showers frae my ee,

When my gudeman lies sound by me.

Young Jamie loo'd me weel, and socht me for his bride;
But, saving a croun, he had naething else beside.
To mak that croun a pund, young Jamie gaed to sea;
And the croun and the pund were baith for me!

He hadna been awa a week but only twa,

When my mother she fell sick, and the cow was stown awa;
My father brak his arm, and young Jamie at the sea-
And auld Robin Gray cam' a-courtin' me.

My father cou'dna work, and my mother cou'dna spin;
I toiled day and nicht; but their bread I cou'dna win;
Auld Rob maintained them baith, and, wi' tears in his ee,
Said, "Jenny, for their sakes, oh, marry me!"

My heart it said nay, for I looked for Jamie back;
But the wind it blew high, and the ship it was a wrack;
The ship it was a wrack! Why didna Jamie dee?
Or, why do I live to say, Wae's me?

My father argued sair-my mother didna speak,

But she lookit in my face till my heart was like to break;
Sae they gied him my hand, though my heart was in the sea;
And auld Robin Gray was gudeman to me.

I hadna been a wife, a week but only four,
When, sitting sae mournfully at the door,

I saw my Jamie's wraith, for I cou'dna think it he,
Till he said, "I'm come back for to marry thee!"

Oh sair, sair did we greet, and muckle did we say;
We took but ae kiss, and we tore ourselves away:
I wish I were dead, but I'm no like to dee;
And why do I live to say, Wae's me?

I

gang like a ghaist, and I carena to spin;

I daurna think on Jamie, for that wad be a sin;
But I'll do my best a gude wife to be,
For auld Robin Gray is kind unto me.

Lady A. Lindsay.

SOLEMNITY.

In the expression of solemnity three things are necessary: First, Natural voice.

Second, Effusive utterance.

Third, Low pitch.

Here, as in pathetic reading, the natural voice and effusive utterance are used, and the same care should be taken to secure perfect purity of tone and a gentle continuous emission of sound.

Low pitch can be easily secured by striking the pitch of ordinary conversation, which is about the middle line of the voice, and descending on the musical scale three or four notes. The level of solemn expression will thus be reached, and with freedom from harshness of tone, united with an effusive utterance, the conditions of solemn reading will be fully met.

SOLEMN SELECTIONS.

THE OLD CLOCK ON THE STAIRS.

Somewhat back from the village street
Stands the old-fashioned country-seat.
Across its antique portico

Tall poplar-trees their shadows throw,
And from its station in the hall
An ancient timepiece says to all,-

"Forever-never!

Never-forever!"

Half-way up the stairs it stands,

And points and beckons with its hands

From its case of massive oak,

Like a monk, who, under his cloak,