With a calm brow, and steady brow,
He listens to his doom;

In his look there is no fear,

Nor a shadow-trace of gloom;
But with calm brow and steady brow
He robes him for the tomb.

In the long night, the still night,
He kneels upon the sod;
And the brutal guards withhold
E'en the solemn word of God!
In the long night, the still night,

He walks where Christ hath trod.
'Neath the blue morn, the sunny morn,
He dies upon the tree;

And he mourns that he can lose
But one life for Liberty;

And in the blue morn, the sunny morn,
His spent wings are free.

But his last words, his message-words,
They burn, lest friendly eye
Should read how proud and calm
A patroit could die,

With his last words, his dying words,

A soldier's battle-cry.

From fame-leaf and angel-leaf,

From monument and urn,

The sad of earth, the glad of heaven,
His tragic fate shall learn;

And on fame-leaf and angel-leaf
The name of Hale shall burn.

-In Judge.

That Game of Quoits

BY VICTOR A. HERMANN.

[In Judge.]

I hev seen them city fellers playin' golf out on the links, An' it looked like you could l'arn the game in four an'

twenty winks;

An' I've seen the gals in sweaters playin' tennis on the

lawn,

An' others playin' croquet till their slowness made you

yawn.

In fact, a game of baseball seems to me to be quite tame When compared with one excitin' an' real good old-fashioned game,

Played by Squire Riggsby an', perhaps, a dozen moreYes, a game of quoits with horseshoes in the back of . Peter's store!

When the first warm wind of springtime came a-sighin' through the grove,

An' it got too warm for checkers in the back of Peter's stove,

"Pegleg" Smith an' Grandpap Saunders hung their coats up in a tree,

Banked the clay an' druv the pegs home just as true as they could be;

Searched aroun' the whole blamed county for old horseshoes, rusty, red

(Even stole ol' Peter's horseshoe that was hangin' over

head),

Started playin' after dinner, with Pap Spruceby keepin'

score,

In a game of quoits with horseshoes in the back of Peter's store!

Through the spring an' through the summer till the late fall came aroun',

An' the frost was on the pumpkin an' the snow was on the groun',

You could find the same old codgers pitchin' horseshoes every day,

Controversin' an' contestin' every game that they would play;

Squire Cole would fume an' argue till his face was like

a beet,

An' his claims would get the others' feelin's up to fever

heat,

Till you'd think there'd be a riot, but 'twas fun an' noth

in' more,

In that game of quoits with horseshoes in the back of

Peter's store!

True Heroism

BY MRS. EDWIN N. BROWN.

'T is not an easy thing, my dear,
To smile and not complain;
To wear the selfsame gladsome face
In sunshine or in rain;

To see our cherished joys depart,
Our fondest hopes resign;
To feel earth's arrows at our heart,
And yet to give no sign;

To wear the mask of happiness,
When sorrow's crown adorns
The brow of our crushed consciousness
With piercing, cruel thorns;

To calmly watch our ship sail on
To homeland far away,

And know it bears our kindred ties
From us for aye and aye.

Up, then, and bear thy burden still,
The strife will not be long;
Hide well thy trials 'neath thy cloak,
And mingle with the throng.

Then, though thy trials at thy heart
Do gnaw in mortal pain,

Thy soul shall wear the victor's smile,
Thy life not spent in vain.

The Way to Win

BY DARIUS EARL MATSON.

If ye'r goin' in a race

W'y, go in to win;

If you lose, it's no disgrace,

Ér no partic'lar sin;

You jest do yer level best,
An' jest run yer mightiest,
An' you may outstrip the rest—
Anyways, try hard to win!

If ye'r goin' in a race,
Don't begin to brag;
Only find yer proper place,
An' nen don't lag;

If you brag ye'r wastin' breath

That you'll need fer runnin' with.
Let the others waste their breath-
Let the others lag!

If ye'r goin' in a race,
Stick right there;

If you kin, w'y, set the pace,

But do it fair;

If to win you have to cheat,

Let the other feller beat;
Dishonest victory's defeat-
Run with care!

Love on Deck*

BY GEORGE BARLOW.

"I never loved you much," she said,
"But I wanted to pass the time.

The hours pass slow on a ship, you know,
In a lazy tropical clime.

Have I hurt you much? Forgive me, then,

If I own that I was wrong.

Cure the smart, and heal your heart,

By writing it all in a song."

The waves flowed free and the waves flowed wide,

As they sat and whispered side by side.

*From "From Dawn to Sunset."

66

"I never cared much for you," he said,

66

But I wanted a subject fit.

I'd verses to make, and I thought I could take
Your heart, and model from it.

Have I pained you much? Forgive me, dear,
A ship is a dreary place:

It is wrong to flirt, but you aren't much hurt,
And you have a lovely face!"

The waves flowed free, and the waves flowed strong,
And the good ship bore them both along.

Each looked at each. They did not smile:
The tears were in either's eyes.

And the cliffs of England rose the while
From the waves, a white surprise.

Hand sought for hand-" shall we gravely end
What first was a freak of the heart?

Shall we meet once more on the English shore,
But, this time, never to part?"

The cliffs rose white from the sunny seas,
And church-bells sounded on the breeze.

Palm Sunday and Easter

BY EDWARD EVERETT HALE.

A roadway carpeted with palms and flowers
A welcome shouted by the eager throng;
A thousand voices sing in David's song,
"Messiah comes, the nation's King, and ours!"

Shouts, songs, and psalms! Yet as the week goes by,
The shouts are silenced and the palms are dry,
Till that last day, when blackness shrouds the sky,
And those who shouted then to-day cry, "Crucify!"

A cold, dark morning and a new-made tomb;
Three weeping women groping through the gloom
To dress a corpse from which the life has gone.
"And who shall roll away for us the stone?"