First, he says, Miss, he's read through your letter
To the end, and the end came too soon.
That a slight illness kept him your debtor
(Which for weeks he was wild as a loon).
That his spirits are buoyant as yours is;
That with you, Miss, he challenges Fate
(Which the language that invalid uses
At times it were vain to relate).

And he says that the mountains are fairer
For once being held in your thought;
That each rock holds a wealth that is rarer
Than ever by gold-seeker sought

(Which are words he would put in these pages,
By a party not given to guile;

Which the same, not at date, paying wages,
Might produce in the sinful a smile).

He remembers the ball at the Ferry,

And the ride, and the gate, and the vow,

And the rose that you gave him

Same rose he is treasuring now;

that very

(Which his blanket he 's kicked on his trunk, Miss,

And insists on his legs being free ;

And his language to me from his bunk, Miss,
Is frequent and painful and free).

He hopes you are wearing no willows,
But are happy and gay all the while;
That he knows (which this dodging of pillows
Imparts but small ease to the style,

And the same you will pardon) — he knows, Miss,
That, though parted by many a mile,
Yet, were he lying under the snows, Miss,
They'd melt into tears at your smile.

And you'd still think of him in your pleasures,
In your brief twilight-dreams of the past,

HIS ANSWER TO "HER LETTER."

In this green laurel-spray that he treasures,

It was plucked where your parting was last. In this specimen — but a small trifle —

It will do for a pin for your shawl; (Which the truth not to wickedly stifle

Was his last week's "clean up " — and his all).

43

He's asleep-which the same might seem strange, Miss, Were it not that I scorn to deny

That I raised his last dose, for a change, Miss,

In view that his fever was high.

But he lies there quite peaceful and pensive;
And, now, my respects, Miss, to you:
Which, my language, although comprehensive,
Might seem to be freedom, it's true.

Which I have a small favor to ask you,
As concerns a bull-pup, which the same
If the duty would not overtask you

You would please to procure for me, game, And send per Express to the Flat, Miss,

Which they say York is famed for the breed, Which though words of deceit may be that- Miss, I'll trust to your taste, Miss, indeed.

P.S.-Which this same interfering
Into other folks' way I despise;
Yet if it so be I was hearing

That it's just empty pockets as lies
Betwixt you and Joseph, it follers,

That, having no family claims,

Here's my pile; which it 's six hundred dollars,

As is yours, with respects, TRUthful James.

BRET HARte.

The Groomsman to the Bridesmaid.

E

VERY wedding, says the proverb,

Makes another, soon or late;

Never yet was any marriage
Entered in the book of fate,
But the names were also written
Of the patient pair that wait.

Blessings then upon the morning
When my friend, with fondest look,
By the solemn rites' permission,

To himself his mistress took,

And the destinies recorded

Other two within their book.

While the priest fulfilled his office,
Still the ground the lovers eyed,
And the parents and the kinsmen
Aimed their glances at the bride;
But the groomsmen eyed the virgins
Who were waiting at her side.

Three there were that stood beside her;
One was dark, and one was fair;

But nor fair nor dark the other,

Save her Arab eyes and hair;
Neither dark nor fair I call her,

Yet she was the fairest there.

While her groomsman

- shall I own it?

Yes to thee, and only thee ·

Gazed upon this dark-eyed maiden

Who was fairest of the three,

Thus he thought: "How blest the bridal

Where the bride were such as she!"

MY BEAU.

Then I mused upon the adage,
Till my wisdom was perplexed,
And I wondered, as the churchman
Dwelt upon his holy text,

Which of all who heard his lesson
Should require the service next.

Whose will be the next occasion
For the flowers, the feast, the wine?
Thine, perchance, my dearest lady;
Or, who knows? — it may be mine,
What if 't were

forgive the fancy

What if 't were both mine and thine?

THOMAS WILLIAM PARSONS.

OH

My Beau.

H, I am dinned with rolling drums
And oft-repeated cheers,

And tired with marching 'mid the throng

Beside the Volunteers!

For all day long my heart and eyes
Went with the foremost row,
Where, handsomest among them all,
I saw my darling Beau.

The tears were on my cheeks unchecked
Throughout this woful day;

I did not heed the people's looks,

I cared not what they'd say;
For why should I disguise my grief,
Or strive to hide the woe

That burst unbidden at the thought
Of parting with my Beau?

45

You surely must have noticed,

As the ranks went marching by,
That tall young fellow in the front,
With such a bright blue eye.

I know a dozen hearts that ached
This day to see him go;
But I alone among them all

Could claim him as a beau.

He was the only beau I had:
Of all the lads, but he

Seemed ever to have cared to win,
Or thought of loving me.

But had a thousand sought my hand,
Howe'er so rich, I'd throw

The greed of gold from out my heart,
And give it to my Beau.

Yon starlit flag is dear to me,
Because beneath its shade,
To fight for what we all believe

Is right, he stands arrayed.
Though were he on the other side,
The Stars and Bars, I know,
Would be as dear as Stripes and Stars,
While floating o'er my Beau.

A victory would be death to me,
Were he among the slain;

I care not who shall win the fight,
So he comes back again;
Nor to which side the bloody tide

Of war shall ebb or flow,

If it but brings me home unwrecked
That man-of-war, my Beau.

MICHAEL O'CONNOR.