Here's to his health, Honor and wealth! Hip, hip, hooray! wid all hilarity, For our docther dear, The king of his kind and the crame of all charity. HOW THE FIFTY-FIRST TOOK THE BRIDGE. JEFF. H. NONES. "Then came the memorable order from Burnside, which must have thrilled 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, While rifle-pit and breastwork strong The sluggish stream that only served 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." “Fix bayonets!" over Hartranft's face And others yet may try; Must storm the bridge or die. Bright flashed the sword their leader drew— The Fifty-first mid shot and shell Omen of Pennsylvania! MAKE ROOM IN HEAVEN.*-HORACE B. DURANT. Little Americus, a child of seven years, gifted with extraordinary musical talent, 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, maka room for a little fellow [" Make room in heaven! A gifted child of song, The sleeper dreams--perchance, some wondrous dream And toil and weariness, in which the days Were weeks, and months were years; for so, at least, What a grand, reflective theme Is childhood! What unfathomed, boundless depths Of ebbing life, and dimly sweep away *Written expressly for this Collection, That newly born from paradise into This lower, sinning world, with wondering eye All is still; The midnight chime is tolling out, across And pomp, with which his childish genius has And sunshine, robbed from his young years? He heeds That presses close, like boist'rous, wrecking waves He slumbers on How calm his rest! The early blush of dawn, Art next best friend to death! Behold that smile As might have streamed from golden gates of bliss, Some passing angel, and then sudden closed He prays-" Merciful God, make room For a little fellow!" His prayer goes straight The morning rose Upon another day, and hasty steps Of passers to and fro, were heard within The streets. Into that quiet chamber, where Stole tenderly, and gazed upon his face Inquiringly; but waked him not. So let And careless multitude that shall await, Nearer draw Unto the couch. The listless hands lie crossed There seems to be a strange and solemn hush Poor child! Oppressed beyond thy years; forced to perform How many are there like to thee! Thou art A THANKFUL PARSON. A pious parson good and true When suddenly there fiercely blew A wild and sweeping breeze. He feared the storm the ship would wreck, 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 "You clearly see," the captain said, They'd all be on their knees instead The parson felt his words were true, But when the seas which wildly flowed He sought the deck in awful dread To near the sailors get; He listened-then he bowed his head: THE DEBATIN' S'CIETY.*-E. F. ANDREWS. 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 bessest er de argyment. Bre'r Jerry Flagg was de fust to tek de flo'. 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' *By permission of the Author. |