Down flocked the soldiers to the banks,

Till, margined by its pebbles,

One wooded shore was blue with "Yanks,"

66

And one was gray with Rebels."

Then all was still, and then the band,
With movement light and tricksy,
Made stream and forest, hill and strand,
Reverberate with "Dixie."

The conscious stream with burnished glow
Went proudly o'er its pebbles,
But thrilled throughout its deepest flow
With yelling of the Rebels.

Again a pause, and then again
The trumpets pealed sonorous,
And "Yankee Doodle " was the strain
To which the shore gave chorus.

The laughing ripple shoreward flew,
To kiss the shining pebbles;

Loud shrieked the swarming Boys in Blue
Defiance to the Rebels.

And yet once more the bugle sang
Above the stormy riot;

No shout upon the evening rang—
There reigned a holy quiet,

The sad, slow stream its noiseless flood
Poured o'er the glistening pebbles;

All silent now the Yankees stood,
And silent stood the Rebels.

No unresponsive soul had heard
That plaintive note's appealing,

So deeply "Home, Sweet Home" had stirred
The hidden founts of feeling.

Or Blue, or Gray, the soldier sees
As by the wand of fairy,

The cottage 'neath the live-oak trees,
The cabin by the prairie.

Or cold, or warm, his native skies
Bend in their beauty o'er him;
Seen through the tear-mist in his eyes,
His loved ones stand before him.

As fades the iris after rain

In April's tearful weather,
The vision vanished, as the strain
And daylight died together.

But memory, waked by music's art,
Expressed in simplest numbers,
Subdued the sternest Yankee's heart,
Made light the Rebel's slumbers.

And fair the form of music shines,
That bright celestial creature,
Who. still, 'mid war's embattled lines,

Gave this one touch of Nature.

Rap"pa-han'nock, a river in Virginia. It was of great strategic importance in the Civil War.

meads, meadows.

az'ure, clear blue color.

em-bra'sure, the opening in a wall

JOHN REUBEN THOMPSON.

or parapet through which cannon are pointed and discharged. so-no'rous, loud and clear. plain'tive, sad; mournful. i'ris, rainbow. In mythology, Iris is the goddess of the rainbow.

JOHN REUBEN THOMPSON was born in Richmond, Virginia, in 1823, and was graduated from the University of Virginia in 1844. He gave up the practice of law to engage in literary pursuits, and at different times edited the Southern Literary Messenger, the Southern Field and Fireside, and the Evening Post, of New York. During the Civil War he lived in London, where he wrote for various English magazines in defense of the Confederacy. The best known of his poems are "The Burial of Latane," ""The Death of Stuart," and the one reproduced here. He died in 1873, and lies buried in Hollywood Cemetery in his native State.

A CAVALRY CHARGE

The introduction of gunpowder and bullets and of long-range repeating rifles has, in modern warfare, greatly lessened the effectiveness of cavalry in general battle with infantry, and deprived that great arm of the service of the terror which its charges once inspired. In wars of the early centuries, the swift horseman rode down the comparatively helpless infantry and trampled its ranks under the horses' feet. For ages after the dismemberment of the Roman Empire, it was the vast bodies of cavalry that checked and changed the currents of battles and

settled the fate of armies and empires. This is not true nowcan never be true again; but a cavalry charge, met by a countercharge of cavalry is still, perhaps, the most terrible spectacle witnessed in war. If the reader has never seen such a charge, he can form little conception of its awe-inspiring fury.

Imagine yourself looking down from Gettysburg heights upon the open, wide-spreading plain below, where five thousand horses are marshaled in battle line. Standing beside them are five thousand riders, armed, booted and spurred, and ready to mount. The bugles sound the "Mount!" and instantly five thousand plumes rise above the horses as the riders spring into their saddles. In front of the respective squadrons the daring leaders take their places. The fluttering pennants or streaming guidons, ten to each regiment, mark the left of the companies. On the opposite slope of the same plain are five thousand hostile horsemen clad in different uniforms, ready to meet these in counter-charge.

Under those ten thousand horses are their hoofs, iron-shod and pitiless, beneath whose furious tread the plain is soon to quiver. Again on each slope of the open field the bugles sound. Ten thousand sabers leap from scabbards and glisten in the sun. The trained horses chafe their restraining bits, and, as the bugle notes sound the charge, their nostrils dilate and their flanks swell in sympathy with their dashing riders.

"Forward!" shouts the commander. Down the lines and through the columns in quick succession ring the echoing commands, Forward, forward!" As this order thrills through eager ears, sabers flash, and spurs are planted in palpitating flanks. The madly flying horses thunder across the trembling field, filling the air with clouds of dust and whizzing pebbles.

Their iron-rimmed hoofs in remorseless tread crush the stones

"THE MADLY FLYING HORSES THUNDER ACROSS THE TREMBLING FIELD