ch was the loss of his
only son. Shortly after this event, in speaking of it to some
friends, he broke out in the following pathetic expression of
feeling:

'I'd rather a' lost the best cow I have, and ten dollars besides,
than that boy. If it had been a gal, it wouldn't a' made so much
difference; but it was the only boy I had.'

On another occasion, in referring to the death of his grandmother,
who had been fatally injured by a butt from a pet ram, DICKEY gave
vent to his feelings as follows:

'I never felt so bad in all my life as I did when grandmother
died. She had got so old, and we had kept her so long, _we wanted
to see how long we could keep her_.

* * * * *

It is the 'turn of the tune' which gives point to the far-famed legend
of 'The Arkansaw Traveler,'--which legend, in brief, is to the effect
that a certain fiddling 'Rackensackian,' who could never learn more than
the first half of a certain tune, once bluntly refused all manner of
hospitality to a weary wayfarer, avowing with many an oath that his
house boasted neither meat nor whisky, bed nor hay. But being taught by
the stranger the 'balance' of the tune,--'the turn,' as he called
it,--he at once overwhelmed his musical guest with all manner of
dainties and kindnesses. And it is the 'turn of the tune,' in the
following lyric, from the soft tinkle of the guitar to the harsh notes
of the 'beaten parchment,' which gives it a peculiar charm.

THE GUITAR AND THE DRUM.

BY R. WOLCOTT, CO. B., TENTH ILLINOIS

Evening draws nigh, and the daylight
In golden splendor dies;
And the stars look down through the gloaming
With soft and tender eyes.

I sit alone in the twilight,
And lazily whiff my cigar,
Watching the blue wreaths curling,
And thrumming my old guitar:

Old, and battered, and dusty,--
A veteran covered with scars;
Yet to me the most precious of treasures,
The sweetest of all guitars.

For a gentle spirit dwells in it,
That speaks through the trembling strings,
And in echo to my thrumming
A wonderful melody sings.

As I softly strike the measures,
The spirit murmurs low
A song of departed pleasures,
A dream of the long ago.

And like a weird enchanter
It paints in the star-lit sky
Pictures from memory's record,
Scenes of the days gone by.

And as the ripples of music