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?

"My home? Why, that was burnt away,
And Pa and Ma is dead;
But now I ride the guns all day,
Along with Sergeant Ned.

"And I've a drum that's not a toy,
And a cap with feathers too;
And I march beside the drummer-boy
On Sundays at review.

"But now our baccy's all give out
The men can't have their smoke,
And so they're cross; why even Ned
Won't play with me, and joke!

"And the big colonel said to-day--
I hate to hear him swear--
'I'd give a leg for a good smoke
Like the Yanks have over there.'

"And so I thought when beat the drum,
And the big guns were still,
I'd creep beneath the tent, and come
Out here across the hill.

"And beg, good Mr. Yankee-men,
You'd give me some Long Jack;
Please do, when we get some again,
I'll surely bring it back.

"And so I came; for Ned, says he,
'If you do what you say,
You'll be a general yet, maybe,
And ride a prancing bay.'"

We brimmed her tiny apron o'er,--
You should have heard her laugh,
As each man from his scanty store
Shook out a generous half.

To kiss the little mouth stooped down
A score of grimy men,
Un