ue to lick the hands which smite them, we do _not_ wonder
that the Southerner, taking the doughface for a type of the whole North,
characterizes all Yankees as serf-like, servile cap-in-hand crawlers and
beggars for patronage. For if we were all of the pro-slavery Democracy,
and especially of those who even now continue to yelp for Southern
rights and grinningly assure patriots that 'under the Constitution they
can do nothing to the South,' we should richly deserve all the scorn
heaped on us by the 'chivalry.'

* * * * *

We doubt not that, during this bitter war, many incidents have occurred,
or will occur, quite like that described in the following simple but
life-true ballad:

FRANK WILSON.

'Twas night at the farm-house. The fallen sun
Shot his last red arrow up in the west;
Shadows came wolfishly stealing forth,
And chased the flush from the mountain's crest.

Night at the farm-house. The hickory fire
Laughed and leaped in the chimney's hold,
And baffled, with its warm mirth, the frost,
As he pried at the panes with his fingers cold.

The chores were finished; and farmer West,
As he slowly sipped from his foaming mug,
Toasted his feet in calm content,
And rejoiced that the barns were warm and snug.

Washing the tea-things, with bared white arms,
And softly humming a love refrain;
With smooth brown braids, and cheeks of rose,
Washed and warbled his daughter Jane.

She was the gift that his dear wife left,
When she died, some nineteen Mays before;
The light and the warmth of the old farm-home,
And cherished by him to his great heart's core.

A sweet, fair girl; yet 'twas not so much
The fashion of feature that made her so;
'Twas love's own tenderness in her eyes,
And on her cheeks love's sunrise glow.

Done were the tea-things; the rounded arms
Again were covered, the wide hearth brushed;
Then from the mantle she took some work,
'Twas a soldier's sock, and her song was hushed.

Her song was hushed; for tenderer thoughts
Than ever were bodied in word or sound,