Under his spurning feet the road
    Like an arrowy Alpine river flowed,
    And the landscape sped away behind
    Like an ocean flying before the wind. 
    And the steed, like a bark fed with furnace fire,
    Swept on, with his wild eye full of ire. 
    But lo! he is nearing his heart’s desire;
    He is snuffing the smoke of the roaring fray,
    With Sheridan only five miles away.

    The first that the General saw were the groups
    Of stragglers, and then the retreating troops. 
    What was done—­what to do?  A glance told him both,
    Then striking his spurs, with a terrible oath,
    He dashed down the line, mid a storm of huzzas,
    And the wave of retreat checked its course there, because
    The sight of the master compelled it to pause. 
    With foam and with dust the black charger was gray;
    By the flash of his eye, and the red nostrils’ play,
    He seemed to the whole great army to say: 
   “I have brought you Sheridan all the way
    From Winchester down to save the day!”

    Hurrah! hurrah for Sheridan! 
    Hurrah! hurrah for horse and man! 
    And when their statues are placed on high,
    Under the dome of the Union sky,
    The American soldiers’ Temple of Fame,
    There with the glorious General’s name
    Be it said, in letters both bold and bright: 
   “Here is the steed that saved the day,
    By carrying Sheridan into the fight
    From Winchester, twenty miles away!”

THOMAS BUCHANAN READ.

 THE SANDPIPER.

“The Sandpiper,” by Celia Thaxter (1836-94), is placed here because a goodly percentage of the children who read it want to learn it.

    Across the lonely beach we flit,
      One little sandpiper and I,
    And fast I gather, bit by bit,
      The scattered driftwood, bleached and dry. 
    The wild waves reach their hands for it,
      The wild wind raves, the tide runs high,
    As up and down the beach we flit,
      One little sandpiper and I.

    Above our heads the sullen clouds
      Scud, black and swift, across the sky;
    Like silent ghosts in misty shrouds
      Stand out the white lighthouses high. 
    Almost as far as eye can reach
      I see the close-reefed vessels fly,
    As fast we flit along the beach,
      One little sandpiper and I.

    I watch him as he skims along,
      Uttering his sweet and mournful cry;
    He starts not at my fitful song,
      Nor flash of fluttering drapery. 
    He has no thought of any wrong,
      He scans me with a fearless eye;
    Stanch friends are we, well tried and strong,
      The little sandpiper and I.