UNCLE SAM'S SPRING CLEANING.

And I guess when I have wrung 'em,

And I guess when I have hung 'em out to dry,

Not a single blot of Spain on an island shall

remain,

And think that they'll feel cleaner then, says I."

- Sam Walter Foss.

The Phantoms.

THE phantom sea serenely blue
Beneath the sunshine lay,

And bold Cervera sailed his ships
Through clouds of phantom spray;
With phantom skill he steered his fleet
For many a phantom day.

One phantom morn the lookout cried, "A sail! I see a sail!"

The bold Cervera, undismayed,

Turned 'round, and then turned pale; Then tried to turn the subject, and Concluded to turn tail.

But closer to Cervera drew

That strangely foreign craft;
"Is she a Yank?" Cervera cried;
For answer phantom laught-
Er rolled across the phantom foam,
Like merriment gone daft.

"Wie gehts, alretty, vonce again!"
Came to Cervera's ear;

"Ve haf peen looging ouid py you

Dis many und many a year;

THE PHANTOMS.

Und now, py Chimineddy, ve
Are glat to see you here!"

"Oh, who are you?" Cervera cried,
With terror in each tone.
"I vos der Flying Dutchman, yet!"
Came through the megaphone;
"Und I am glat dot nefermore
I'll sail der sea alone."

And so, across the phantom deep,
And through the phantom spray,
Through phantom storms, and phantom

calms,

Through phantom night and day, The Flying Dutchman and the FlyIng Spaniard sail for aye.

- Baltimore News.

For whom the marble shaft we wreathe

With garlands of immortal dyes;

Not dead, they sleep, while angel guards

-

Patrol their camp on every hand;

Sweet rest at last their toil rewards

Who sought to save their leaguered land.

When Liberty assailed, oppressed,

Raised up her voice against the wrong, O loyal sons of dauntless breast, How firm ye stood in cordon strong. A hero's soul in every eye

Fired with a hero's purpose grand,

For liberty, if need, to die,

Or, living, for her cause to stand.

The screaming shot, the bursting shell, The long-roll echoing through the night, To lead the charge 'mid groan and yell, The deadly struggle might with might.

THE HEROIC DEAD.

The bivouac on the bloody field

Racked with the pangs of wounds and

The horrors of the prison pen,

Whence few who entered ever came, Starvation in a loathsome den

Where life was death and hope a name; All these and more these heroes dared That freedom's light might shine afar, Each breast to death was freely bared Amid the wild alarm of war.

Again across Columbia's plains

The war trump peals its thrilling blast, Once more it sings in stirring strains

The glorious triumphs of the past; The answering tread of mustering hosts, The land aglow with bivouac fires, Proclaim that still our Union boasts

Sons brave and loyal as their sires.

These graves with tears of love bedew, And deck them with the bloom of May

In honor of the boys in blue,

In memory of the boys in gray.