The moon dips in yon tawny cloud,

The ghostly leaves wave to and fro; And falls the order, stern and loud: "Up from the trenches, ho!"

As when they heard the rattling drum

Which roused them at the dawn of day, From field and fen, look where they comeThe ranks of Blue and Gray!

Ah! not in anger, now, they meet,
Again they give the kindly hand—
In brotherhood each other greet,
Friends of the shadow-land.

Among his men the leader rides,

Calm Peace, that Death can never mar,

On his glory-lighted brow abides,
Fair as yon holy star.

He, by whose hand a comrade fell,
Has singled out that comrade now;
The legend of the fight they tell,
By dripping leaf and bough.

No sentry's challenge cleaves the air,
No clinking sabres wake the gloom;
No camp-fire's dull and lurid glare
Presages fearful doom.

But when the heavy night is o'er,

And eastern skies are golden red, The spectres fade, and lo! once more The trenches keep their dead.

ONLY GOING TO THE GATE.

BY ETHEL LYNN.

Like a bell of blossom ringing,

Clear and childish, shrill and sweet,

Floating to the porch's shadow,

With the fainter fall of feet,

Comes the answer softly backward,
Bidding tender watcher wait,
While the Baby Queen outruns her

"Only going to the gate.

Through the moonlight, warm and scented,
Love to Beauty breathes his sigh,
Lingering, to leave reluctant,

Loth to speak the low good-by.
Then the same low echo answers,
Waiting love of older date,
And the maiden whispers backward,
"Only going to the gate."

Oh, these gates along our pathway,
What they bar outside and in!
With the vague outlook beyond them,
Over ways we have not been.

How they stand before, behind us;
Toll-gates some, with price to pay;
Spring-gates some that shut forever:
Cloud-gates some, that melt away!
Just across their slender weavings
Troth-plight happy hands have crossed
Yet its locks have rusted ruddy,

Or its keys in night shade lost.
Over latches, softly falling,

Good-by prayers have dropped like dew; Little gateways, softly shutting,

Yet have cut a love in two.

So we pass them going upward
On our journey, one by one,

To the distant shining wicket

Where each traveller goes alone:

Where the friends who journey with us

Strangely falter, stop and wait;

Father, mother, child or lover,

"Only going to the gate."

THE CHILD AND THE SUNSHINE.

GEORGE COOPER.

Through the doorway flowed the sunshine
In a flood of molten gold;
Like a cataract of glory

Down the rifted clouds it rolled,

While a child upon the carpet,
Laughing, ran to where it lay,
With its little hands outreaching-
Like a dream it fled away.

For a cloud had wandered o'er us,
And the blue of heaven had gone,
And the dark wings of the tempest
Beat the sullen air alone.

Still the child, its arms extended,
Gazed upon the vacant floor,
Waiting, watching for the sunshine
Which would come that day no more.

Happy childhood! watching, waiting,
In your sweet and rosy glow,
You will follow Hopes as fleeting,
In the path your feet must go!

And your longing heart will linger,
While the joy-rays dimly burn,
For the warm and pleasant sunbeams
That will never more return!

THE BLUE AND THE GRAY,

F. M. FINCH.

By the flow of the inland river,

Whence the fleets of iron have fled, Where the blades of the grave-grass quiver, Asleep are the ranks of the dead;

Under the sod and the dew,

Waiting the Judgment DayUnder the one the Blue,

Under the other the Gray.

From the silence of sorrowful hours

The desolate mourners go, Lovingly laden with flowers

Alike for the friend and the foe;

Under the sod and the dew,

Waiting the Judgment Day

Under the roses the Blue,
Under the lilies the Gray.

So with an equal splendor
The morning sun-rays fall,
With a touch impartially tender,
On the blossoms blooming for all;
Under the sod and the dew,

Waiting the Judgment Day-
'Broidered with gold the Blue,
Mellowed with gold the Gray.

So when the summer calleth
On forest and field of grain,
With an equal murmur falleth
The cooling drip of the rain;
Under the sod and the dew,
Waiting the Judgment Day-
Wet with the rain, the Blue,

Wet with the rain the Gray.

Sadly, but not with upbraiding,

The generous deed was done;

In the storm of the years that are fading
No braver battle was won;

Under the sod and the dew,
Waiting the Judgment Day-
Under the blossoms the Blue,

Under the garlands the Gray.

No more shall the war-cry sever,

Or the winding rivers be red; They banish our anger forever

When they laurel the graves of our dead! Under the sod and the dew,

Waiting the Judgment Day

Love and tears for the Blue,

Tears and love for the Gray.

THE PETRIFIED FERN.

MARY BOLLES BRANCH.

In a valley, centuries ago,

Grew a little fern leaf, green and slender,

Veining delicate and fibres tender;

Waving when the wind crept down so low; Rushes tall, and moss, and grass grew round it,

Playful sunbeams darted in and found it,

Drops of dew stole by night and crowned it,
But no foot of man e'er trod that way;
Earth was young and keeping holiday.

Monster fishes swam the silent main,
Stately forests waved their giant branches,
Mountains hurled their snowy avalanches,
Mammoth creatures stalked across the plain;
Nature revelled in grand mysteries;
But the little fern was not of these,

Did not number with the hills and trees,

Only grew and waved its wild sweet way

No one came to note it day by day.

Earth, one time, put on a frolic mood,

Heaved the rocks and changed the mighty motion
Of the deep strong currents of the ocean;
Moved the plain and shook the haughty wood,