I came on to the creek, and as the old mare stopped to drink I thought I could hear the water rippling over the pebbles, fare-ye-well Brother Watkins-ah.  Even the little fishes-ah, as their bright fins glistened in the sunlight-ah, gathered round to say as best they could, fare-ye-well Brother Watkins-ah.

I was slowly passing up the hill meditating-ah on the sad vicissitudes of life-ah, when out bounded a big hog from the fence corner-ah with an a-boo a-boo and I came to the ground-ah, with my saddle bags-ah by my side-ah, and as the old mare ran up the hill-ah, she waved her tail back at me-ah seemingly to say-ah, fare-ye-well Brother Watkins-ah.

LOGIC.

ANONYMOUS.

          I. HER RESPECTABLE PAPA’S.

      “My dear, be sensible!  Upon my word,
      This—­for a woman even—­is absurd. 
      His income’s not a hundred pounds, I know. 
      He’s not worth loving.”—­“But I love him so.”

          II.  HER MOTHER’S.

      “You silly child, he is well made and tall;
      But looks are far from being all in all. 
      His social standing’s low, his family’s low. 
      He’s not worth loving.”—­“And I love him so.”

          III.  HER ETERNAL FRIEND’S.

      “Is that he picking up the fallen fan? 
      My dear! he’s such an awkward, ugly man! 
      You must be certain, pet, to answer ‘No.’ 
      He’s not worth loving.”—­” And I love him so.”

          IV.  HER BROTHER’S.

      “By jove! were I a girl—­through horrid hap—­
      I wouldn’t have a milk-and-water chap. 
      The man has not a single spark of ‘go.’ 
      He’s not worth loving.”—­” Yet I love him so.”

          V. HER OWN.

      “And were he everything to which I’ve listened,
      Though he were ugly, awkward (and he isn’t),
      Poor, lowly-born, and destitute of ‘go,’
      He is worth loving, for I love him so.”

THE PRIDE OF BATTERY B.

BY F.H.  GASSAWAY.

South Mountain towered on our right
Far off the river lay;
And over on the wooded height
We kept their lines at bay.

At last the muttering guns were stilled,
The day died slow and wan;
At last the gunners’ pipes were filled,
The sergeant’s yarns began.

When, as the wind a moment blew
Aside the fragrant flood,
Our brushwood razed, before our view
A little maiden stood.

A tiny tot of six or seven,
From fireside fresh she seemed;
Of such a little one in heaven
I know one soldier dreamed.

And as she stood, her little hand
Went to her curly head;
In grave salute, “And who are you?”
At length the sergeant said.

“Where is your home?” he growled again. 
She lisped out, “Who is me? 
Why, don’t you know I’m little Jane,
The pride of Battery B?