Old books from yonder shelves are

whispering, "Peace!

This is the realm of letters, not of strife."

Old graves in yonder field are saying, "Cease!

Hic jacet ends the noisiest mortal's life."

-Shut your old books! What says the telegraph?

We want an Extra, not an epitaph. Old Classmates, (Time's unconscious almanacs,

Counting the years we leave behind our backs,

And wearing them in wrinkles on the brow

Of friendship with his kind "How are you now?")

Take us by the hand, and speak of

times that were.

Then comes a moment's pause: "Pray tell me where

Your boy is now! Wounded, as I am told."

"Twenty?" "What-bless me! twenty-one years old!"

"Yes,-time moves fast."

"That's

SO. Old classmate, say, Do you remember our Commence

An' God wun't leave us yit to sink or swim,

Ef we don't fail to du wut's right by him.

This land o' ourn, I tell ye, 's gut to be

A better country than man ever

see.

I feel my sperit swellin' with a cry Thet seems to say, "Break forth an' prophesy!"

O strange New World, thet yit wast never young,

Whose youth from thee by gripin' need was wrung,

Brown foundlin' o' the woods, whose baby-bed

Was prowled roun' by the Injuns' cracklin' tread,

An' who grew'st strong thru shifts an' wants an' pains,

Nussed by stern men with empires in their brains,

Who saw in vision their young Ishmel strain

With each hard hand a vassal ocean's

Ef I turned mad dogs loose, John,
On your front-parlor stairs,
Would it jest meet your views, John,
To wait an' sue their heirs?

Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess,
I on'y guess, sez he,

"Thet, ef Vattell on his toes
fell,

'Twould kind o' rile J. B.,
Ez wal ez you and me!"

Who made the law thet hurts, John,
Heads I win-ditto, tails?
"J. B." was on his shirts, John,
Onless my memory fails.

Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess,
(I'm good at thet,") sez he,
"Thet sauce for goose ain't jest
the juice

For ganders with J. B.,

No more than you or me!"

When your rights was our wrong, John,

You didn't stop for fuss,
Britanny's trident-prongs, John,
Was good 'nough law for us.

Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess,
Though physic's good," sez he,

"It doesn't foller thet he can

swaller

Prescriptions signed 'J. B.' Put up by you an' me!"

We own the ocean, tu, John:

You mus'n' take it hard,
Ef we can't think with you, John,
It's jest your own back-yard.

Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess,
Ef thet's his claim," sez he,
"The fencin'-stuff'll cost enough
To bust up friend J. B.,
Ez wal ez you an' me!"

Why talk so dreffle big, John,
Of honor, when it meant
You didn't care a fig, John,
But jest for ten per cent?

Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess,
He's like the rest," sez he:
"When all is done, it's number

one

Thet's nearest to J. B.,

Ez wal ez you an' me!"

We give the critters back, John,

Coz Abra'm thought 'twas right; It warn't your bullyin' clack, John, Provokin' us to fight.

Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess
We've a hard row," sez he,
"To hoe just now: but thet,
somehow,
May happen to J. B.,

Ez wal ez you an' me!"

We ain't so weak an' poor, John,
With twenty million people,
An' close to every door, John,
A school-house an' a steeple.
Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess
It is a fact," sez he,

"The surest plan to make a Man
Is, Think him so, J. B.,
Ez much ez you or me!"

Our folks believe in Law, John:
An' it's for her sake, now,
They've left the axe an' saw, John,
The anvil an' the plough.

Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess,
Ef't warn't for law," sez he,
"There'd be one shindy from
here to Indy;
An' thet don't suit J. B.,
(When 'tain't 'twixt you an'
me!")

But now should my guests be merry, the house is in holiday guise, Looking out, through its burnished windows like a score of welcoming eyes.

Come hither, my brothers who wander in saintliness and in sin! Come hither, ye pilgrims of Nature!

my heart doth invite you in.

My wine is not of the choicest, yet bears it an honest brand;

And the bread that I bid you lighten

I break with no sparing hand; But pause, ere you pass to taste it,

one act must accomplished be: Salute the flag in its virtue, before ye sit down with me.

The flag of our stately battles, not

struggles of wrath and greed: Its stripes were a holy lesson, its spangles a deathless creed; 'Twas red with the blood of freemen, and white with the fear of the foe,

And the stars that fight in their courses 'gainst tyrants its symbols know.

Come hither, thou son of my mother! we were reared in the selfsame arms;

Thou hast many a pleasant gesture, thy mind hath its gifts and charms

But my heart is as stern to question as mine eyes are of sorrows full: Salute the flag in its virtue, or pass on where others rule.

Thou lord of a thousand acres, with

heaps of uncounted gold, The steeds of thy stall are haughty, thy lackeys cunning and bold: I envy no jot of thy splendor, I rail at thy follies none: Salute the flag in its virtue, or leave my poor house alone.

Fair lady with silken trappings, high

waving thy stainless plume, We welcome thee to our numbers, a flower of costliest bloom: Let a hundred maids live widowed to furnish thy bridal bed; But pause where the flag doth question, and bend thy triumphant head.

Take down now your flaunting banner, for a scout comes breathless and pale,

With the terror of death upon him; of failure is all his tale: "They have fled while the flag waved o'er them! they have turned to the foe their back! They are scattered, pursued, and slaughtered! the fields are all rout and wrack!"

Pass hence, then, the friends I gathered, a goodly company! All ye that have manhood in you, go, perish for Liberty! But I and the babes God gave me will wait with uplifted hearts,

With the firm smile ready to kindle, and the will to perform our parts.

When the last true heart lies bloodless, when the fierce and the false have won,

I'll press in turn to my bosom each daughter and either son;

Bid them loose the flag from its bearings, and we'll lay us down to rest

With the glory of home about us, and its freedom locked in our breast.

JULIA WARD HOWE.

THE WASHERS OF THE SHROUD.

ALONG a river-side, I know not where,

I walked one night in mystery of dream;

A chill creeps curdling yet beneath my hair,

To think what chanced me by the pallid gleam

Of a moor-wraith that waned through haunted air.

Pale fire-flies pulsed within the meadow mist

Their halos, wavering thistle-downs of light;

The loon, that seemed to mock some goblin tryst,