I WAS WITH GRANT.-BRET HARTE

"I was with Grant-" the stranger said;
Said the farmer, "Say no more,
But rest thee here at my cottage porch,
For thy feet are weary and sore."
"I was with Grant-" the stranger said;
Said the farmer, "Nay, no more—
I prithee sit at my frugal board,
And eat of my humble store.

"How fares my boy-my soldier boy,
Of the old Ninth Army Corps?
I warrant he bore him gallantly

In the smoke and the battle's roar."
"I know him not," said the aged man,
"And, as I remarked before,

I was with Grant-" "Nay, nay, I know,"
Said the farmer, "Say no more;

"He fell in battle-I see, alas!

Thou didst smooth these tidings o'er-
Nay; speak the truth, whatever it be,
Though it rend my bosom's core.

"How fell he? with his face to the foe,
Upholding the flag he bore?

Oh, say not that my boy disgraced
The uniform that he wore!"

"I cannot tell," said the aged man,
"And should have remarked before,
That I was with Grant--in Illinois-
Some three years before the war."

Then the farmer spake him never a word,
But beat with his fist full sore

That aged man who had worked for Grant
Some three years before the war.

LABOR IS WORSHIP.-FRANCES S. OSGOOD.

Pause not to dream of the future before us;
Pause not to weep the wild cares that come o'er us;
Hark, how Creation's deep, musical chorus,
Unintermitting, goes up into heaven!

Never the ocean wave falters in flowing;

Never the little seed stops in its growing;
More and more richly the rose-heart keeps glowing,
Till from its nourishing stem it is riven.

"Labor is worship!"-the robin is singing;
"Labor is worship!"-the wild bee is ringing;
Listen! that eloquent whisper upspringing

Speaks to thy soul from out Nature's great heart.
From the dark cloud flows the life-giving shower;
From the rough sod blows the soft-breathing flower;
From the small insect, the rich coral bower;

Only man, in the plan, ever shrinks from his part.

Labor is life! 'Tis the still water faileth;
Idleness ever despaireth, bewaileth;

Keep the watch wound, for the dark rust assaileth;
Flowers droop and die in the stillness of noon.
Labor is glory!-the flying cloud lightens;

Only the waving wing changes and brightens;

Idle hearts only the dark future frightens;

Play the sweet keys, wouldst thou keep them in tune.

Labor is rest from the sorrows that greet us,
Rest from all petty vexations that meet us,
Rest from sin-promptings that ever entreat us,
Rest from world-sirens that lure us to ill.
Work-and pure slumbers shall wait on thy pillow;
Work-thou shalt ride over Care's coming billow;
Lie not down wearied 'neath Woe's weeping-willow;
Work with a stout heart and resolute will!

Labor is health! Lo, the husbandman reaping,
How through his veins goes the life current leaping!
How his strong arm, in its stalwart pride sweeping,
True as a sunbeam the swift sickle guides.

Labor is wealth! In the sea the pearl groweth;
Rich the queen's robe from the frail cocoon floweth;
From the fine acorn the strong forest bloweth;
Temple and statue the marble block hides.

Droop not, though shame, sin, and anguish are round thee; Bravely fling off the cold chain that hath bound thee;

Look to yon pure heaven smiling beyond thee;

Rest not content in thy darkness-a clod.

Work for some good, be it ever so slowly;
Cherish some flower, be it ever so lowly;
Labor! all labor is noble and holy;

Let thy great deeds be thy prayer to thy God.

MY CHILDHOOD HOME.-B. P. SHILLABER. (MRS. PARTINGTON.)

There's a little low hut by the river's side,
Within the sound of its rippling tide;
Its walls are grey with the mosses of years,
And its roof all crumbled and old appears;
But fairer to me than castle's pride

Is the little low hut by the river's side!

The little low hut was my natal nest,

When my childhood passed-Life's springtime blest;
Where the hopes of ardent youth were formed,
And the sun of promise my young heart warmed,
Ere I threw myself on life's swift tide,
And left the dear hut by the river's side.

That little low hut, in lowly guise,
Was soft and grand to my youthful eyes,
And fairer trees were ne'er known before,
Than the apple-trees by the humble door,-
That my father loved for their thrifty pride,—
That shadowed the hut by the river's side.

That little low hut had a glad hearthstone,
That echoed of old with a pleasant tone,
And brothers and sisters, a merry crew,
Filled the hours with pleasure as on they flew;
But one by one the loved ones died,
That dwelt in the hut by the river's side.

The father revered and the children gay

The graves of the world have called away;

But quietly, all alone, here sits

By the pleasant window, in summer, and knits,

An aged woman, long years allied

With the little low hut by the river's side.

That little low hut to the lonely wife
Is the cherished stage of her active life;
Each scene is recalled in memory's beam,
As she sits by the window in pensive dream,
And joys and woes roll back like a tide
In that little low hut by the river's side.

My mother-alone by the river's side
She waits for the flood of the heavenly tide,

And the voice that shall thrill her heart with its call

To meet once more with the dear ones all,

And forms in a region beautified,

The band that once met by the river's side.

The dear old hut by the river's side

With the warmest pulse of my heart is allied,-
And a glory is over its dark walls thrown,
That statelier fabrics have never known,—
And I shall love with a fonder pride
That little low hut by the river's side.

MONA'S WATERS.

Oh! Mona's waters are blue and bright
When the sun shines out like a gay young lover;

But Mona's waves are dark as night

When the face of heaven is clouded over

The wild wind drives the crested foam

Far up the steep and rocky mountain,

And booming echoes drown the voice,

The silvery voice, of Mona's fountain.

Wild, wild against that mountain's side

The wrathful waves were up and beating, When stern Glenvarloch's chieftain came: With anxious brow and hurried greeting He bade the widowed mother send

(While loud the tempest's voice was raging) Her fair young son across the flood,

Where winds and waves their strife were waging

And still that fearful mother prayed,

"Oh! yet delay, delay till morning,

For weak the hand that guides our bark,

Though brave his heart, all danger scorning."

Little did stern Glenvarloch heed:

"The safety of my fortress tower

Depends on tidings he must bring

From Fairlee bank, within the hour.

"See'st thou, across the sullen wave,

A blood-red banner wildly streaming?

That flag a message brings to me
Of which my foes are little dreaming.
The boy must put his boat across

(Gold shall repay his hour of danger,) And bring me me back, with care and speed, Three letters from the light-browed stranger."

The orphan boy leaped lightly in;

Bold was his eye and brow of beauty,
And bright his smile as thus he spoke:
"I do but pay a vassal's duty;
Fear not for me, O mother dear!

See how the boat the tide is spurning;
The storm will cease, the sky will clear,
And thou wilt watch me safe returning.".

His bark shot on-now up, now down,
Over the waves--the snowy-crested;
Now like a dart it sped along,

Now like a white-winged sea-bird rested;
And ever when the wind sank low,

Smote on the ear that woman's wailing, As long she watched, with streaming eyes, That fragile bark's uncertain sailing.

He reached the shore-the letters claimed;
Triumphant, heard the stranger's wonder
That one so young should brave alone

The heaving lake, the rolling thunder.
And once again his snowy sail

Was seen by her-that mourning mother; And once she heard his shouting voice —

That voice the waves were soon to smother.

Wild burst the wind, wide flapped the sail,
A crashing peal of thunder followed;
The gust swept o'er the water's face,

And caverns in the deep lake hollowed.
The gust swept past, the waves grew calm,
The thunder died along the mountain;

But where was he who used to play,
On sunny days, by Mona's fountain?

His cold corpse floated to the shore,

Where knelt his lone and shrieking mother;

And bitterly she wept for him,

The widow's son, who had no brother!