ses, and roads cut straight through hill and valley,
regardless of cost or the destruction of local charms of hill and
dale.

[Illustration: THE BRITISH SHELL.]

If one were to judge by the streets, he would think Baltimorians
lived only on oysters, for the new streets seem wholly built of
their shells, making them very white, glaring and offensive to the
unaccustomed eye. But the attention is soon diverted from houses and
roads, to the bay and to Fort McHenry, which lies before the town like
a sleeping lion. Few forts in the country are more interesting or
have played a more important part in our military history; but all
its military reputation is less interesting than the fact that
whilst confined to a British vessel, one of the fleet unsuccessfully
bombarding the fort, Francis Key wrote the "Star-Spangled Banner,"
now a national hymn. A bomb thrown into the fort at that time by the
British has been preserved on a pillar ever since--almost the only
local reminder of the facts of the bombardment.

At Baltimore we leave the Philadelphia, Wilmington and Baltimore
Railroad, sorry to part from so good a road and one so important to
the welfare of the country. It is a link in the great system, and one
kept very bright and well polished by its managers. Their course has
been to pay only a moderate dividend, and use the rest of the earnings
to improve the road and its belongings, and to foster the interests
of the people who use it. Such wise policy must build it strongly into
the affections and interests of those who live along it, and ensure
its being each year a better and better-paying road.

ROBERT MORRIS COPELAND.

* * * * *

CHARITY CROSS.

Tinted are her cheeks with rose
She is waiting in the snows
Of the falling apple-blows.

Tinklings of a drowsy rill
Come from the upland orchard hill,
Niches in her dreams to fill.

Dotted is her rustic shawl
With the apple-leaves that fall:
Twilight splendors cover all.

Deeper lined than earthly grace,
Rest of heaven doth in her face
Rejoice in its abiding-place.

Charity Cross, it groweth late:
Household duties for you wait,
Just beyond the garden-gate.

Leave the apple-blooms to fall,
Far-off brook to vainly call:
Lightly climb the orchard wall.

All your dreamings softly fold:
Let them drift away untold
In the dying sunset's gold.

Down the path that leads between