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BY WILLIAM QUAYLE.
'Tis a dreary night, as I sit in my tent,
My throbbing brow on my knee is bent;
And I think of the past—of a fair young form,
For metliinks I see thro' the howling storm
Her angel face ; and a heavenly smile
Seems to illumine it all the while j
And the glossy-locks of her dark-broAVn hair,
K*em to play In the wintry air,
For her marble-brow, so white and fair,
Is free from sorroAV, and every care.
But while I gaze, and think of the past,
Her form is borne on the wintry blast;
And Avhen in vain I try to trace
Thro' the gathering gloom, her angel face:
I think of the happy days iioav gone
When her guileless heart Avas all my own.
But the rain keeps pattering on the tent,
And still my weary head is bent,
For my heart is sad, "tho' you deem me weak,
The burning tear starts doAvn my cheek;"
For she AVhom I loved, God knoAVS how AVell,
Has severed the chain, has broken the spell
That lingered 'round my soul.
But soon 'mid the deadly-cannon's roar.
And murderous bullets that round me pour,
I'll find a soldier's grave.
And Avhen In the list my name is read
Among the dying and the dead,
Will she have one thought for me ?
Will she think of the boy, tho' her lip may curl,
Who loved her when a bright-eyed girl?
LITTLE DILVER'S TRUDGE.
An April breeze was stirring the drifts of bloom
on a Western prairie. Away as far as the eye
could reach in one direction soft billoAVS of grass
and blossom rolled, and the breeze as it rustled
among them caught the fresh breath of their fra
grance on its wings. Just upon tho verge of tho
prairie, nestled like some great Avhitebird among
the tall locusts and stout black walnuts that
shadowed its purity, was a little white-walled
cottage, with a green tracery of vines about its
windoAvs and porches, and a perfect wilderness
..f o-nv hlnsHoms and emerald verdure in front.
tween them, clasped upon her knee.
A little lower down, seated upon tho steps,
were four others—tAvo stalwart young men with
brown faces and earnest eyes, a young girl, and
a child with a face like daybreak; such inno
cence, and freshness, and roseate bloom; such
large, wondering, serious eyes; such a little sen
sitive scarlet mouth; such gravity just now upon
the young features.
" You will remember, then, Dilver," said one
of the young men, continuing a bantering con
versation with the child, "that, just as Aunt i
Fanny is Mr. Forsyth's Avife, you are mine?"
" Dilver '11 'member," said the child with the
utmost seriousness, while the young girl, blush
ing brightly and threatening him with her little
hand, exclaimed, " Fie, Warren !"
"I'll leave it to Forsyth if it's not the
truth," said the young man roguishly, as he
dodged the pretty hand.
" If it's not true it is almost," Forsyth said, j
lightly; and then, drawing nearer the girl, he
added, in a low voice, while his friend pretended
i obliviousness,
" I wish it was quite true, Fanny. I wish f3l j
Avould bo my wife before I go. It would take
aAvay half the pain of parting to know that
I left a wife behind me, instead of a pretty
girl Avho Avill find plenty of beaux to help her
" If she could do that she Avouldn't deserve to
be your Avife," said the girl, gently, yet Avith a
tender sweetness that thrilled her lover's heart. |
"Aunt Fanny,"said little Dilver, "if Mr. For
syth dits sick, or any body tuts his arm off
where he's doing, shall you do and take care of
him, and make his arm droAV arlin?"
The girl's soft eyes filled with tears, and she
gave a little sob as she turned partly away from
Forsyth's hand covered hers sis it trembled
upon her lap, and he whispered, "Be my Avife,
Fanny, and-then if the worst happens you can
come to me. I mean," he exclaimed, as he saAV
lioav her cheek Avhitened—" Hang it, lioav clumsy
lam!" And rising suddenly, "Fanny, AA'on't
you come out in the grovo Avitli me ? I Avant to
see if "
The remainder of the speech was lost as the
girl rose, as much to hide her pale and tearful I
face, and let him lead her away.
" What Avas it ho Avanted to see ?" questioned
tho child, her lip quivering.
"Only if tho spring weren't dry," said War
ren, roguishly.
" Springs don't ever dit dry," said Dilver, re
proachfully—" not hardly ever. Aunt Fanny
told mesOi"
Forsyth and Fanny Avere married the morning
before the departure of the two young men for
| the seat of Avar, and while young Forsyth held '
and when he had gone she refused to be com
forted for hours.
Fanny sat in her chamber drenched in tears,
or stole about the house Avith a very pale face
and red eyes, and Dilver hid herself in the little
recess at the head of tho stairs, and cried her
tears upon her apron—the very one that had been
put on clean to bid Warren good-by in.
Whenever young Hastings name was men
tioned afterward she called herself, Avith great
assumption of dignity, his " little wife."
The family, much amused, humored iter in
the fancy, and being a singularly bright and en
gaging little creature, others, who were fond of
the child, found her small talk about it very en
tertaining.
She Avas a comical littleiniitatortoo, andAvhat
ever Fanny said about Frank, Dilver very
gravely repeated concerning Warren.
One day came very sad news. Frank Forsyth
had been wounded, and was likely to die. A
telegram came summoning his young Avife. Mrs.
Loring was very unAvilling that Fanny should
go. Hbo wan old and timid, and it »eemed to bel
li terrible thing for a young creature like Fanny
to venture upon such a journey alone, for there
was no one to go with her.
But Faimy Avas firm and resolved, and sho
The A r ery day succeeding her departure came
A-ery similar news concerning Warren Hastings;
though not so directly, or from any reliable
source. It Avas merely a rumor, but chanced to
meet Dilver's ears. Tho curious child—not no
curious either, for children often adopt such fan
cies—had taken upon her to expect that whatever
happened to Aunt Fanny avus to happen to her
also; and over since Aunt Fanny's departure
she had asked constantly if no " teldorn" had
como for her from Warren.
Noav she assumed at once tHat she had receiv
ed her telegram, and (like Aunt Fanny) an
nounced her intention of going to " Rashin'ton'"
immediately to take care of him.
The family smiled, and found much amuse
ment, as heretofore, in Watching and listening
to her.
She had a little red morocco cabas that some
ono had given her. This she "packed" in very
womanly fashion, and with much anxious con
sultation Avith "dranma."
Her mother —two years dead—had been Fan
j nys sister and Mrs. Loring's daughter.
" Dranniii," with much prideful enjoyment,
advised and was consulted to the child's infinite
contentment, and the packing was ooncluded
after the most approved fashion. Of course
"drannia" and tho rest thought 110 farther till
I DiK-er bade them all a very affecting good-by,
and started on her journey toward her sick sol-
