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There's a cap in the closet,

Old, tattered, and blue,
Of very slight value,

It may be to you;
But a crown, jewel-studded,

Could not buy it to-day,
With its letters of honor,

Brave "Co. K."

The head that it sheltered

Needs shelter no more 1 Dead heroes make holy

The trifles they wore;
So, like chaplet of honor,

Of laurel and bay,
Seems the cap of the soldier,

Marked " Co. K."

Bright eyes have looked calmly

Its visor beneath,
O'er the work of the reaper,

Grim harvester Death!
Let the muster-roll, meagre,

So mournfully say, How foremost in danger

Went "Co. K."

Whose footsteps unbroken

Came up to the town, Where rampart and bastion

Looked threat'ningly down?

Who, closing up breaches,
Still kept on their way,

Till guns, downward pointed,
Faced " Co. K."

Like cameras awful,

Stood cannon aloof, Till the signal was given,

To strike off a proof
Of the soul of the soldier,

To send up to Him,
(Pray God, that he know it,

Though bloody and dim.)

Who faltered, or shivered f

Who shunned battle-stroke? Whose fire was uncertain?

Whose battle-line broke? Go, ask it of History,

Years from to-day, And the record shall tell you,

Not " Co. K."

Though my darling is sleeping

To-day with the dead,
And daisies and clover

Bloom ovei^his head,
I smile through my tears

As I lay it away—
That battle worn cap,

Lettered " Co. K."


"The sun-light is yellow and pleasant,
What darkens your spirit, Jem True?"

'Ay, Sergeant, it's bright for the present,
And I know it looks mean to be blue,
Squattin' here, like a draggle-tailed pheasant—■
But what's a poor fellow to do?

"Nary shot since I left the ' peraries,'
And 'listed in sarch o' big game—

It's a rule that must work by contraries,
That inveigled me on till I came

To this ground, without even canaries
Or chippies to warrant an aim.

"Misfortin' comes crowdin' misfortin',
And between 'om old Jem is nigh beat,

For here comes the news of the sportin'
As has come to them chaps on the fleet—

And bless yer, they're grecnies for courtin'
The shrews of grim death as they'll meet.

"Why, there isn't one cove in a dozen,
For all they're stout as you'll see,

As distinguishes well 'twixt the buzzin*
Of a bullet and that of a bee,

And among 'em there's Billy, my cousin,
He shakes ' on a rest' like a flea.

"And Toby, though brave as a lion,
His intentions his in'ards confound,
When to jerkin' the trigger he's nigh on,
The vartigo bobs him around,

'And that bully old sinner, O'Ryan,

He's cross-eyed and shoots at the ground.

"While here's the old boy as can jingle Any button as shines on a breast,

With a pill as can operate single,

At eight hundred yards and ' no rest,'

He's left for his cusses to mingle,
Like a eagle what's glued to his nest.

"'Twas only last night when on duty
A sightin' them pickets o' theirs,
That I drew a true bead on a ' beauty,'
With a greasy old coon on his ears—
'0 beautiful varmint I I'll shoot ye,'
I whispered aloud unawares.

"' No, you won't," says my comrade, ole Dan'l,
'The orders keep pickets from harm.'
1 Well, I'll rip up them stripes of red flannel

What so sarcily shine on his arm,' I pleaded, but 'No,' says old Dan'l, 'The order's keep pickets from harm.'

"Sech orders my heart's disappointing

'Twasn't sech as inveigled me in To clap my mark down to the writin'

The recruiter said glories would win. Oh I when fellers is gathered for fightin',

Say, why can't the scrimmage begin f

"Oh! I'm sick of this lazy black river,
Where for ever we're likely to stay.

Why, the Capital's saved if it ever
Will be—and it can't run away!

Can't we leave it a spell? are we never
To sport in these digging here—say?

"Must a cove as can ring up his twenty
At twelve hundred yards on a ' string,'

Get his hand out when varmints is plenty,
Like a watch-works what hasn't no spring?

Must a screamer be mum when he's sent t'ye
In voice for his sweetest to sing.

'I cares not for fierce adversaries,
If for fightin' we wasn't so slow—

0 Sergeant! it's waitiu' that varies
The misery that hangs on me so—

1 longs for my darlin' 'peraries,'

And that's why my fcelins is low."


"Tour Yankee Is always to be found with a Jack-knife, and when he has nothing else to do, Is eternally whittling."—GrowlIng Old Travellbr.

In the olden time of England, the days of Norman

pride, The mail-clad chieftain buckled on his broad-sword at

his side, And, mounted on his trusty steed, from land to land

he strayed, And ever as he wandered on, he whittled with his


Oh ! those dreamy days of whittling 1

He was out in search of monsters—of giants grim and tell,

He was hunting up the griffins—the dragons, great and small—

He broke in through the oak doors of many a castlegate,

And what he whittled when within, 'tis needless to relate.

Oh! those foolish days of whittling 1

But when the pomp of feudal pride, like a dream had

passed away, And everywhere the knightly steel was rusting to

decay, The common people drew their blades in quite another

cause, And in the place of giants grim, they whittled up the


Oh! those stern old days of whittling!

They whittled down the royal throne with all its ancient

might, And many a tough old cavalier was whittled out of

Bight; They whittled off the king's head, and set it on the

wall, They whittled out a commonwealth, but it could not

last at all.

Oh! those fiery days of whittling!

There came across the stormy deep, a stern and iron

band, A solemn look on every face—their hatchets in their

hands; They whittled down the forest oak, the chestnut, and

the pine, And planted in the wilderness the rose-tree and the


Oh! those fearful days of whittling!

They made themselves a clearing, and housed their

little freight, They put their Sunday coats on, and whittled out a

State; Thev cut it round so perfectly, they whittled it so

'" true," That it still stands in beauty for all the world to view. Oh! those grand old days of whittling!

When England sent her hirelings, with cannon, gun,

and blade, To break and batter down the State which these good

men had made, The people seized for weapons whatever came to

hand, And whittled these intruders back, and drove them

from the land.

Oh! heroic days of whittling!

In men of Saxon blood it stays—this love of whittling—

still, And something must be whittled to pacify the will; When the old wars were over, and peace came back

again, They took to whittling mountains, and filling vale and


Oh! those peaceful days of whittling!

They whittled out the railroad path through hill, and

rock, and sand, And sent their snorting engines to thunder through

the land; Sails whitened all the harbors, the mountain valleys

stirred, And the hum and roar of labor through all the land

was heard.

Oh I those busy days of whittling!

But there long had dwelt among us a gaunt and

hideous Wrong, Set round with ancient guarantees, with legal ramparts


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tone defiant, it feared not God or

r .

a every side for power to work its and dry for whittling.

iiK was humble, asking, with pious cry, left alone, in its own time to die;

first yielding, bolder and bolder grown, • the nations now, it reared its bloody

time draws nigh for whittling!

before destruction," the wise man said of

c;ods seek to ruin they first make mad j" hi .}• of its madness, this Wrong forgot its

with noise of gongs to fright our Tankce ug race. Kid gave this chance for whittling.

my trusty Saxons, who come from near and

r who your fathers were, and set your teeth
of the Lord and Gideon!" be still your battle-

ke as Samson struck of old, smite Slavery hip
1 thigh.
Now is your time for whittling.

i lien this life shall rest again from all this noise and strife,

I 'oace her olive-branch shall wave o'er this broad realm of life,

as the sun, our nation before the world shall stand,

•dom on all her banners, freedom throughout the land.

Oh 1 these grand rewards of whittling!



Hark! a bugle's echo comes,

Hark! a file is singing,
Hark 1 the roll of far-off drums,

Through the air is ringing!

Nearer the bugle's echo comes,

Nearer the life is singing, Near and more near the roll of drums

Through the air is ringing.

War! it is thy music proud,
Wakening the brave-hearted,

Memories—hopes—a glorious crowd,
At its call hare started.

Memories of our sires of old,

Who, oppression-driven,
High their rainbow-flag unrolled

To the sun and sky of heaven.

Memories of the true and brave,

Who, at honor's bidding, Stepped, their Country's life to save,

To war as to their wedding.

Memories of many a battle-plain,
Where their life-blood flowing,

Made green the grass and gold the grain,
Above their grave-mounds growing.

Hopes—that the children of their prayers,

With them in valor vying, May do as noble deeds as theirs,

In living and in dying:

And make, for children yet to come,
The land of their bequeathing

The imperial and the peerless home
Of happiest beings breathing.

For this the warrior-path we tread,

The battle-path of duty,
And change, for field and forest-bed,

Our bowers of love and beauty.

Music! bid thy minstrels play

N'o tunes of grief or sorrow;
Let them cheer the living brave to-day,

They may wail the dead to-morrow.



There's a happy time coming
When the boys come home,

There's a glorious day coming
When the boys come home.

We will end the dreadful story

Of this treason dark and gory

In a sun-burst of glory

When the boys come home.

The day will seem brighter

When the boys come home; For our hearts will be lighter

When the boys come home. Wives and sweethearts will press them In their arms, and caress them, And pray God to bless them, When the boys come home.

The thinned ranks will be proudest

When the boys come home, And their cheer will ring the loudest

When the boys come home.
The full ranks will be shattered,
And the bright arms will be battered,
And the battle-standards tattered,
When the boys come home.

Their bayonets may be rusty
When the boys come home,

And their uniforms dusty
When the boys come home;

But all shall see the traces

Of battle's royal graces

In the brown and bearded faces
When the boys come home.

Our love shall go to meet them

When the boys come home, To bless them and to greet them

When the boys come home.

And the fame of their endeavor

Time and change shall not dissevi'

From the nation's heart for ever

When the boys come home.

Honorable Mention Of A Colored Soldier.—The following letters were received by the Military Secretary of Governor Andrew, Albert G. Browne, Esq., at Port Royal:

Hbadquahtbrs Fiftt-fouhth Mass. Vols., )
Morris Islakd, 8. C, October 15, 1843. f

Colonel: I have the honor to forward you the following letters, received a few days since from Sergeant W. H. Carney, company C, of this regiment Mention has before been made of his heroic conduct in preserving the American flag, and bearing it from the field, in the assault on Fort Wagner, on the eighteenth of July last, but that you may have the history complete, I send a simple statement of the facts, as I have obtained them from him, and an officer who was an eye-witness:

When the Sergeant arrived to within about one hundred yards of the Fort—he was with the first battalion, which was in the advance of the storming column—he received the regimental colors, pressed forward to the front rank, near the Colonel, who was leading the men over the ditch. He says, as they ascended the wall of the Fort, the ranks were full, but as soon as they reached the top, tbey "melted away" before the enemy's fire "almost instantly." He received a severe wound in the thigh, but fell only upon his knees. He planted the flag upon the parapet, lay down on the outer slope, that he might get as much shelter as possible; there he remained for over half an hour, till the Second brigade came up. He kept the colors fly-1 ing until the second conflict was ended. When our forces retired, he followed, creeping on one knee, still holding up the flag. It was thus that Sergeant Carney came from the field, having held the emblem of liberty over the walls of Fort Wagner during the sanguinary conflict of the two brigades, and having received two very severe wounds, one in the thigh, and one in the head. Still he refused to give up his sacred trust until he found an officer of his regiment.

When he entered the field hospital, where his wounded comrades were being brought in, they cheered him and the colors. Though nearly exhausted with the loss of blood, he said: Boys, the old flag never touched the ground."

Of him, as a man and a soldier, I can speak in the highest terms of praise.

I have the honor to be, Colonel, very respectfully, your most obedient servant,


Colonel Commanding Fifty-fourth Regt. Mass. Vols. Colonel A. G. Browne, Jr.,

Military Secretary to His Excellency John A. Andrew, Mass.

Morris Island, 8. C, October 18,1868. Col. M. S. LitUefield, Commanding Fifty-fourth Mass.:

Dear Sir: Complying with your request, I send you the following history, pertaining to my birth, parentage, social and religious experience and standing; in short, a concise but brief epitome of my life, I undertake to perform in my poor way. I was born in Norfolk, Va., in 1840; my father's name was William Carney; my mother's name before her marriage was Ann Dean, and she was the property of one Major Carney; but at his death, she, with all his people, was by his will made free. In my fourteenth year, when I had no work to do, I attended a private and secret school, kept in Norfolk by a minister. In my fifteenth year I embraced the Gospel; at that time I was also engaged in the coasting trade with my father.

In 1856,1 left the sea for a time, and my father set out to look for a place to live in peace and freedom. He first Btopped in the land of William Fenn, Benja

min Franklin, and where the " bright Juniata" flows —Pennsylvania—but he rested not there; the black man was not secure on the soil where the Declaration of Independence was written. He went far. Then he visited the Empire State—great New-York—whose chief ambition seemed to be for commerce and gold, and with her unceasing struggle for supremacy, she heard not the slave; she oply had time to spurn the man with the sable skin, and made him feel that he was an alien in his native land.

At last he set his weary feet upon the sterile rocks of "Old Massachusetts." The very air he breathed put enthusiasm into his spirit. Oh! yes, be found a refuge from oppression in the Old Bay State. He selected as his dwelling-place the city of New-Bedford, where "Liberty Hall" is a sacred edifice. Like the Temple of Diana, which covered the virgins from harm in olden time, so old Liberty Hall in New-Bedford protects the oppressed slave of the nineteenth century. After stopping a short time, he sent for his family, and there they still dwell. I remained in the city with the family, pursuing the avocation of a jobber of work for stores, and at such places as I could find employment I soon formed connection with a church under charge of the Rev. Mr. Jackson, now Chaplain of the Fifty-fifth Massachusetts volunteers.

Previous to the formation of colored troops I had a strong inclination to prepare myself for the ministry; but when the country called for all persons, I could best serve my God by serving my country and my oppressed brothers. The sequel is short—/ enlisted for the war. I am your humble and obedient servant, William II. Carney, Sergeant Co. 0, Fifty-fourth Massachusetts Volunteers.

The Canine Species Sodth.—The Columbus Sun estimates that in the confederate States of America there are not, perhaps, less than one million of dogs, little and big. We regard this as a very moderate estimate. It is quite evident that these dogs must eat; it is evident, also, that every ounce of bread they eat diminishes the supply of food just that much; aud, consequently, as the supply is decreased, the price of what remains must increase. Suppose, for instance, that each dog will consume only one half an ounce of bread per day, that is certainly a moderate estimate, but we desire to be clearly within the bounds of reason; then the million of curs would consume three million five hundred thousand ounces per week, or fifteen million one hundred and sixty-six thousand six hundred and sixty-six and two thirds pounds per annum. At present prices, the bread thus consumed by these worthless dogs would amount to a sum not less than forty-six hundred thousand dollars.

This is the tribute we pay the dogs in the article of bread alone. How shall we estimate the amount of meat they will consume, the amount of eggs they "suck," or the number of sheep they kill? Of how many pounds of wool, at three and a hulf dollars per pound, have these worthless canines deprived us? How many excellent pairs of cotton-cards have our noble women sought in vain to purchase, because the million of dog-skins have not been pulled from worthless carcasses, dressed, and turned over to the manufacturer? Does this seem a subject too small to challenge the attention of our legislators, or are our sage representatives willing to pay the tribute for luxury afforded them by a pack of mangy canines I So far as we are concerned, individually, we have well-nigh arrived at the decision to vote for no man to represent the interests of bis country in legislative assemblies who will not pledge himself hostile to this tremendous canine tribute.

An editor, in announcing that he is drafted, discourses as follows:

"Why should we mourn conscripted friends,
Or shake at draft's alarms?
'Tis but the voice that Abram sends,
To make us shoulder arms."

A Brave Loyal Bot.—Rev. John Summers, a home missionary in Benton County, Iowa, has three sons, all of whom have been in the army of the country. One is ftill in the service, one has been honorably discharged, and the third, a boy less than eighteen years of age, was mortally wounded at the battle of Champion Hill. His funeral sermon was preached by Elder King. An immense audience was present. The following is a copy of the last letter of the dying boy. It exhibits most remarkable coolness, and was written at his own dictation:

Battlb-ground Om Railroad, J

East or Black Rivkr, Miss., May 17,1868. J

Deab Parents, Brothers, And Sisters: This is the last letter you will receive from me. I am mortally wounded in the thigh, and mortification has already commenced. I was wounded in two places, and at the same time. As I said, one ball entered my right thigh, glancing upward, shivering the bone of my hip, making it impossible to save my life by amputation. The other ball entered just above my ankle, in the same leg. I suppose you are anxious to know what my feelings are with the prospect of death before me. I am resigned, and feel that my Heavenly Father sustains me in this trying hour.

While lying on the battle-ground and the enemy were charging over me, I committed myself into the hands of God, and felt that I was accepted. Don't mourn for me, I am going to a better land. I feel that I can trust Christ as my Saviour. In the hour of death my love for you all seems to be stronger than when in health.

I received your last letter to-day, also one from Lucy and Andy. Hoping you will be sustained in this affliction, I remain your affectionate and dying son and brother, Willie Summers.

An Incident At Chattanooga.—At one point there was a lull in the battle. At least, it had gone scattering and thundering down the line, and the boys were as much " at ease " as boys can be on whom, at any moment, the storm may roll back again. To be sure, occasional shots, and now and then a comctary shell, kept them alive; but one of the boys ran down to a little spring, and to the woods where the enemy lay, for water. He had ju9t stopped and swung down his canteen—" tick," and a Minie ball struck it at an angle and bounded away. He looked around an instant, discovered nobody, thought it was a chance shot — a piece of lead, you know, that goes at a killing rate without malice prepense; and so, nowise infirm of purpose, he bent to get the water. Ping! a second bullet cut the cord of his canteen, and the boy " got the idea;" a sharp-shooter was after him, and he went on the right-about on the double-quick to the ranks. A soldier from another part of the line made a pilgrimage to the spring, was struck, and fell by its brink. But where was the marksman? Two or three boys ran out to draw his fire while others watched.

Vol. VIIL—Poetby 2

Crack went the unseen piece again, and some keeneyed fellow spied the smoke roll out from a little cedar. This was the spot, then; the reb had made him a hawk's nest—in choice Indian, a Chattanooga in the tree—and, drawing the green covert around him, was taking a quiet hand at "steeple-shooting" at long-range.

A big, blue-eyed German, tall enough to look into the third generation, and a sharp-shooter withal, volunteered to dislodge him. Dropping into a little runway that neared the tree diagonally, he turned upon his back and worked himself cautiously along; reaching a point perilously close, he whipped over, took aim as he lay, and God and his true right hand "gave him good deliverance." Away flew the bullet, a minute elapsed, the volume of the cedar parted; aud, "like a big frog," as the boys described it, out leaped a grayback—the hawk's nest was empty, and a dead rebel lay under the tree. It was neatly done by the German. May he live to tell the story a thousand times to his moon-faced grandchildren!

Leonard Grenewald.—The destruction of the pontoon-bridge and train at Falling Waters in July, 1868, was one of the most daring exploits of the war, and the credit of it belongs mainly to Leonard Grenewald, chief of the Gray Eagle Scouts, and formerly of the Jessie Scouts. During previous trips he had ascertained the strength of the ground and location of the bridge, and finally obtained from General French a detail of two hundred men from the First Virginia and Thirteenth and Fourteenth New-York cavalry, under Major Foley and Lieutenant Dawson, to undertake its destruction. They arrived at the Potomac in the morning, just at daylight, and found the character of the bridge to be part trestle-work with pontoons in the centre, which were carefully floated out every evening and taken to the Virginia shore, rendering the bridge useless for the night. Lieutenant Dawson and Grenewald then swam the river, and brought back several pontoons, with which they ferried over some forty of the detachment, being all that were willing to go. Arriving on the southern side, they surprised the rebel camp, fired a volley into the sleeping rebels, and created an utter stampede. They captured about twenty rebels, including one officer. Then, destroying the camp, some stores, and four wagons of ammunition, they took all the pontoons over the river, and either burned or cut them to pieces. The balance of the bridge was destroyed, and the party came off without the loss of a man. Grenewald desired to perform the same thing at Williamsport, but his party declined to back him up. He is one of the most daring and reliable of scouts, and does great service.


The following i9 the entire contribution of Mr. Carlyle to Macmillan's Magazine:

Ilias (americana) In Nuce.

Peter of the North (to Paul of the South)—" PauL you unaccountable scoundrel, I find you hire your servants for life, not by the month or year, as I do! You are going straight to hell, you!"

Paul—^ Good words, Peter I The risk is my own; I am willing to take the risk. Hire you your servants by the month or day, and get straight to heaven; leave me to my own method."

Peter—" No, I won't. I will beat your brains out

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