my baby don't lose his appetite!"

But oh! the after-dinner! I miss that most of all,--
The shooting at the targets, the jolly game of ball,
And then the long wood-ramble! We climbed, and slid, and ran,--
We and the neighbor-children,--and one was Mary Ann,

Who (as I didn't mention) sat next to me at school:
Sometimes I had to show her the way to work the rule
Of Ratio and Proportion, and do upon her slate
Those long, hard sums that puzzle a merry maiden's pate.

I wonder if they're going across the hills to-day;
And up the cliffs I wonder what boy will lead the way;
And if they'll gather fern-leaves and checkerberries red,
And who will put a garland of ground-pine on her head.

O dear! the air grows sultry: I'd wish myself at home
Were it a whit less noble, the cause for which I've come.
Four years ago a school-boy; as foolish now as then!
But greatly they don't differ, I fancy,--boys and men.

I'm just nineteen to-morrow, and I shall surely stay
For Freedom's final battle, be it until I'm gray,
Unless a Southern bullet should take me off my feet.--
There's nothing left to live for, if Rebeldom should beat;

For home and love and honor and freedom are at stake,
And life may well be given for our dear Union's sake;
So reads the Proclamation, and so the sermon ran;
Do ministers and people feel it as soldiers can?

When will it all be ended? 'Tis not in youth to hold
In quietness and patience, like people grave and old:
A year? three? four? or seven?--O then, when I return,
Put on a big log, mother, and let it blaze and burn,

And roast your fattest turkey, bake all the pies you can,
And, if she isn't married, invite in Mary Ann!
Hang flags from every window! we'll all be glad and gay,
For Peace will light the country on that Thanksgiving Day.

_Lucy Larcom._

[Illustration]

THUMBLING:

A STORY FOR CHILDREN.

_The Introduction._

DEAR OLD FRIEND:--We were all sitting round the fire the other evening
after dinner. The evening paper had been read and explained, and the
Colonel was now nursing his wounded arm, and musingly smoking his old
camp-pipe, browned to a rich mahogany in many marches among the sands of
Folly Island, through the rose-gardens of Florida, and over the hills
and valleys of battle-worn old Virginia; I myself, who have never yet
taken kindly to pipe