I meet his boy in the park sometimes,

And my heart runs over toward the child; A frank little fellow with fearless eyes,

He smiles at me as his father smiled

I hate the man, but I love the boy,

For I think what my own, had he lived, would bePerhaps it is he come back from the dead

To his father, alas, not me!

But I stand too long in the shadow here,
Let me out in the light again!
Now for insult, blows perhaps,

And, bitterer still, my own disdain !

I take my place in the crowded street,
Not like the simple women I see,-

You may cheat them, men, as much as you please:
You wear no masks with me.

I know ye! under your honeyed words

There lurks a serpent; your oaths are lies;
There's a lustful fire in your hungry hearts,
I see it flaming up in your eyes.

Cling to them ladies, and shrink from me,

Or rail at my boldness. Well, have you done?
Madam, your husband knows me well!
Mother, I know your son!

But go your ways, and I'll go mine,

Call me opprobious names if you will; The truth is bitter-think I have lied"A harlot ?" Yes, but a woman still. God said of old to a woman like me,

"Go, sin no more;" or your Bibles lieBut you, you mangle his merciful words To "Go and sin till you die!"

Die-the word has a pleasant sound,

The sweetest I've heard this many a year; It seems to promise an end to pain,— Anyway it will end it here.

Suppose I throw myself in the street?

Before the horses could trample me down,
Some would-be friend might snatch me up,
And thrust me back on the town.

But look-the river! From where I stand
I see it, I almost hear it flow-

Down on the dark and lonely picr-
It is but a step-I can end my woe!

A plunge, a splash, and all will be o'er,

The death-black waters will drag me down;
God knows where! But no matter where,
So I am off the town.

LOVE LIGHTENS LABOR.

A GOOD wife rose from her bed one morn,
And thought with a nervous dread

Of the piles of clothes to be washed, and more
Than a dozen mouths to be fed.

There's the meals to get for the men in the field,
And the children to fix-away

To school, and the milk to be skimmed and churned;
And all to be done this day.

It had rained in the night, and all the wood
Was wet as it could be;

There were puddings and pies to bake, besides
A loaf of cake for tea.

And the day was hot, and her aching head

Throbbed wearily as she said,

"If maidens but knew what good wives know, They would not be in haste to wed!"

"Jennie, what do you think I told Ben Brown ?"

Called the farmer from the well;

And a flush crept up to his bronzed brow,

And his eyes half bashfully fell;

"It was this," he said, and coming near

He smiled, and stooping down,

Kissed her cheek-"'twas this, that you were the best,

And the dearest wife in town!"

The farmer went back to the field, and the wife

In a smiling, absent way

Sang snatches of tender little songs

She'd not sung for many a day.

And the pain in her head was gone, and the clothes
Were white as the foam of the sea;

Her bread was light, and her butter was sweet,
And as golden as it could be.

"Just think," the children all called in a breath, "Tom Wood has run off to sea!

He wouldn't, I know, if he'd only had

As happy a home as we."

The night came down, and the good wife smiled

To herself, as she softly said:

"Tis so sweet to labor for those we love,—

It's not strange that maids will wed!"—

IS IT ANYBODY'S BUSINESS?

Is it anybody's business,

If a gentleman should choose

To wait upon a lady,

If the lady don't refuse?

Or, to speak a little plainer,

That the meaning all may know,

Is it anybody's business

If a lady has a beau?

Is it anybody's business

When that gentleman doth call, Or when he leaves the lady,

Or if he leaves at all?

Or is it necessary

That the curtain should be drawn,

To save from further trouble

The outside lookers-on?

Is it anybody's business, But the lady's, if her beau Rideth out with other ladies,

And doesn't let her know? Is it anybody's business,

But the gentleman's, if she Should accept another escort,

Where he doesn't chance to be?

If a person's on the side-walk, Whether great or whether small, Is it anybody's business

Where that person means to call? Or if you see a person

While he's calling any where, Is it any of your business

What his business may be there?

Tho substance of our query, Simply stated, would be this: Is it any body's business

What another's business is? Whether 'tis or whether 'tisn't

We should really like to know, For we are certain, if it isn't, There are some who make it so.

THE WOUNDED SOLDIER.

STEADY, boys, steady!

Keep your arms ready,

God only knows whom we may meet here.
Don't let me be taken-

I'd rather awaken

To-morrow, in-no matter where,

Than lie in that foul prison-hole-over there.
Step slowly!
Speak lowly!

The rocks may have life;
Lay me down in the hollow;
We are out of the strife.

By heaven! the foeman may track me in blood,
For this hole in my breast is outpouring a flood.
No! no surgeon for me; he can give me no aid;
The surgeon I want is a pickaxe and spade.
What, Morris, a tear? Why, shame on you, man!
I thought you a hero; but since you began
To whimper and cry, like a girl in her teens,
By George! I don't know what the devil it means.

Well! well! I am rough, 'tis a very rough school,
This life of a trooper-but yet I'm no fool!
I know a brave man, and a friend from a foc;
And, boys, that you love me I certainly know.
But wasn't it grand,

When they came down the hill over sloughing and sand?
But we stood-did we not ?-like immovable rock,
Unheeding their balls and repelling their shock.
Did you mind the loud cry,
When, as turning to fly,

Our men sprang upon them determined to die
Oh, wasn't it grand?

God help the poor wretches who fell in the fight;
No time was there given for prayers or for flight.
They fell by the score, in the crash, hand to hand,
And they mingled their blood with the sloughing and sand.

Huzza!

Great heaven! this bullet-hole gapes like a grave;

A curse on the aim of the traitorous knave!

Is there never a one of you knows how to pray,
Or speak for a man as his life ebbs away?

Pray! Pray!

Our Father! our Father! why don't you proceed?
Can't you see I am dying? Great God, how I bleed !

Ebbing away!

Ebbing away! The light of the day is turning to gray.
Pray! Pray!

Our Father in Heaven-boys, tell me the rest,

While I stanch the hot blood from this hole in my breast.
There's something about the forgiveness of sin;
Put that in! put that in!—and then

I'll follow your words and say an amen.

Here, Morris, old fellow, get hold of my hand,
And, Wilson, my comrade-oh! wasn't it grand

When they came down the hill like a thunder-charged clond,
And were scattered like mist by our brave little crowd?
Where's Wilson-my comrade-here, stoop down your head,
Cau't you say a short prayer for the dying and dead?

"Christ-God, who died for sinners all,
Hear thou this suppliant wanderer's cry;
Let not o'en this poor sparrow fall
Unheeded by thy gracious eye;

Throw wide thy gates to let him in,
And take him pleading to thine arms;
Forgive, O Lord, his life-long sin,

And quiet all his fierce alarms."

God bless you, my comrade, for singing that hymn,
It is light to my path,-
-now my sight has grown dim-
I am dying-bend down-till I touch you once more;
Don't forget me, old fellow-God prosper this war!
Confusion to enemies!-keep hold of my hand-
And float our dear flag o'er à prosperous land !”

CHAR-CO-O-AL.

THE chimney soot was falling fast,
As through the streets and alleys passed
A man who sang, with noise and din,
This word of singular meanin,

Char-co-o-al!

His face was grim, his nose upturned,
As if the very ground he spurned-
And like a trumpet sound was heard,
The accents of that awful word,

Char-co-o-al!

In muddy streets he did descry

The "moire antiques" held high and dry,
With feet and ankles shown too well,

And from his lips escaped a yell!—

Char-co-o-al!