The scattered stones look desolate,

The sod they rested on

Has been ploughed up by stranger hands,
Since you and I were gone.

The chestnut-tree is dead, John,
And what is sadder now,

The grape-vine of that same old swing
Hangs on the withered bough.
I read our names upon the bark,
And found the pebbles rare
Laid up beneath the hollow side,
As we had piled them there.

Beneath the grass-grown bank, John,
I looked for our old spring-
That bubbled down the alder path
Three paces from the swing;
The rushes grow upon the brink,
The pool is black and bare,
And not a foot for many a day,
It seems has trodden there.

I took the old blind road, John,
That wandered up the hill-
'Tis darker than it used to be,
And seems so lone and still;
The birds yet sing upon the boughs
Where once the sweet grapes hung
But not a voice of human kind
Where all our voices rung.

I sat me on the fence, John,
That lies as in old time,

The same half panel in the path
We used so oft to climb-

And thought how, o'er the bars of life,

Our playmates had passed on,

And left me counting on the spot

The faces that were gone.

PUTTING UP STOVES.

THE first step a person takes is to put on a very old and ragged coat, under the impression that when he gets his mouth full of plaster it will keep his shirt-bosom clean.

Next he gets his hands inside the place where the pipe ought to go, and blacks his fingers, and then he carefully makes a black mark down the side of his nose. It is impossible to make any headway in doing this work, until this mark is made. Having got his face properly marked, the victim is ready to begin the ceremony. The head of the family-who is the big goose of the sacrifice-grasps one side of the bottom of the stove, and his wife and the hired girl take hold of the other side. In this way the load is started from the woodshed toward the parlor. Going through the door, the head of the family will carefully swing his side of the stove around, and jam his thumb-nail against the door-post. This part of the cere mony is never omitted. Having got the stove comfortably in place, the next thing is to find the legs. Two of them are left inside the stove since the Spring before; the other two must be hunted after for twenty-five minutes. They are usually found under the coal. Then the head of the family holds up one side of the stove while his wife puts two of the legs in place, and next he holds up the other side while the other two are fixed, and one of the first two falls out. By the time the stove is on its legs he gets reckless, and takes off his old coat, regardless of his linen. Then he goes off for the pipe, and gets a cinder in his eye. It don't make any difference how well the pipe was put up last year, it will be found a little too short or a little too long. The head of the family jams. his hat over his eyes, and, taking a pipe under each arm, goes to the tin-shop to have it fixed. When he gets back he steps upon one of the best parlor chairs to see if the pipe fits, and his wife makes him get down for fear he will scratch the varnish off the chair with the nails in his bootheel. In getting down he will surely step on the cat, and may thank his stars if it is not the baby. Then he gets an old chair, and climbs up to the chimney again, to find that in cutting the pipe off, the end has been left too big for the hole in the chimney. So he goes to the woodshed, and splits on one side of the end of the pipe with an old axe, and squeezes it in his hands to make it smaller. Finally he gets the pipe in shape, and finds that the stove does not stand true. Then himself and wife and the hire l girl move the stove to the left, and the legs fall out again

The next move is to the right. More difficulty with the legs. Moved to the front a little. Elbow not even with the hole in the chimney, and he goes to the woodshed after some little blocks. While putting the blocks under the legs, the pipe comes out of the chimney. That reme died, the elbow keeps tipping over, to the great alarm of his wife. He then gets the dinner-table out, puts the old chair on it, gets his wife to hold the chair, and balances himself on it to drive some nails into the ceiling. Drops the hammer on his wife's head. At last he gets the nails driven, makes a wire-swing to hold the pipe, hammers a little here, pulls a little there, takes a long breath, and announces the ceremony completed.

Job never put up any stoves. his reputation if he had.

It would have ruined

DRAFTED.-MRS. H. L. BOSTWICK.

My son! What! Drafted? My Harry! Why, man, 'tis a boy at his books;

No taller, I'm sure, than your Annie-as delicate, too, in his looks.

Why, it seems but a day since he helped me, girl-like, in my kitchen at tasks;

He drafted! Great God, can it be that our President knows what he asks?

He never could wrestle, this boy, though in spirit as brave as the best;

Narrow-chested, a little, you notice, like him who has long been at rest.

Too slender for over-much study-why, his master has made him to-day

Go out with his ball on the common-and you've drafted a child at his play!

"Not a patriot ?" Fie! Did I whimper when Robert stood up with his gun,

And the hero-blood chafed in his forehead, the evening we heard of Bull Run?

Pointing his finger at Harry, but turning his eyes to the wall, "There's a staff growing up for your age, mother," said Rob ert, "if I am to fall."

"Eighteen?" Oh, I know! And yet narrowly; just a wee babe on the day

When his father got up from a sick-bed and cast his last ballot for Clay;

Proud of his boy and his ticket, said he, "A new morsel of fame We'll lay on the candidate's altar"-and christened the child with his name.

Oh, what have I done,-a weak woman, in what have I meddled with harm!

Troubling only my God for the sunshine and rain on my rough little farm,

That my ploughshares are beaten to swords, and whetted before my eyes,

That my tears must cleanse a foul nation, my lamb be a sac

rifice?

Oh, 'tis true there's a country to save, man, and 'tis true there is no appeal,

But did God see my boy's name lying the uppermost one in the wheel?

Five stalwart sons has my neighbor, and never the lot upon one; Are these things Fortune's caprices, or is it God's will that is

done?

Are the others too precious for resting where Robert is taking

his rest,

With the pictured face of young Annie lying over the rent in his breast?

Too tender for parting with sweethearts? Too fair to be crippled or scarred?

My boy! Thank God for these tears-I was growing so bitter and hard!

Now read me a page in the Book, Harry, that goes in your knapsack to-night,

Of the eye that sees when the sparrow grows weary and falters in flight;

Talk of something that's nobler than living, of a Love that is higher than mine,

And faith which has planted its banner where the heavenly camp-fires shine.

Talk of something that watches us softly, as the shadows glide down in the yard;

That shall go with my soldier to battle, and stand with my picket on guard.

Spirits of loving and lost ones-watch softly with Harry to-night, For to-morrow he goes forth to battle-to arm him for Freedoni

and Right!

THE BLUE AND THE GRAY.-F. M. FINCH.

The women of Columbus, Mississippi, animated by noble sentiments, have shown themselves impartial in their offerings made to the memory of the dead. They strewed flowers alike on the graves of the Confederate and of the National soldiers.

By the flow of the inland river,

Whence the fleets of iron have fled,

Where the blades of the grave-grass quiver,
Asleep on the ranks of the dead:-
Under the sod and the dew,
Waiting the judgment day;

Under the one, the Blue,
Under the other, the Gray.

These in the robings of glory,
Those in the gloom of defeat,
All with the battle-blood gory,
In the dusk of eternity meet:-
Under the sod and the dew,
Waiting the judgment day;
Under the laurel, the Blue,
Under the willow, the Gray.

From the silence of sorrowful hours,
The desolate mourners go,
Lovingly laden with flowers,

Alike for the friend and the foe:

Under the sod and the dew,

Waiting the judgment day;

Under the roses, the Blue,
Under the lilies, the Gray.

So, with an equal splendor,
The morning sun-rays fall,
With a touch impartially tender,
On the blossoms blooming for all :-
Under the sod and the dew,
Waiting the judgment day;
Broidered with gold, the Blue,
Mellowed with gold, the Gray.

So, when the Summer calleth,
On forest and field of grain
With an equal murmur falleth
The cooling drip of the rain