We were laden with flowers, Star and I,
For the soldiers' graves, Memorial Day,
When we passed Uncle Joe's small cottage by,
Uncle Joe on the doorstep, wrinkled and gray.

"Shall I carry him these?" Star whispered low,
And ere I could answer, away she flew,
And the black, withered hands of old Uncle Joe
Held the choicest blooms that my garden knew

"You should keep them all for the soldiers, Star,"
I said in reproof as the child came back;
"But he was a soldier, too, mamma,

And he is so old and lame and black!"

"But these were to put on the graves, you see;"
She drooped for a moment her golden head,
Then her eyes grew bright: "It seems to me
He will like them as well as if he were dead."
-Emma C. Dowd in Youth's Co

The mother of a soldier-hats off to her I say!

The mother of a soldier who has gone to face the fray;
She gave him to her country with a blessing on his head-
She found his name this morning in the long list of the dead
"Killed-Sergeant Thomas Watkins, while leading on the re
A Bible in his pocket and a portrait on his breast!"

The mother of a soldier-she gave him to her land;
She saw him on the transport as he waved his sunbrowned
She kissed him through the teardrops and she told him to be
Her prayers went night and morning with her boy upon the
The mother of a soldier-her comfort and her joy,
She gave her dearest treasure when she gave her only boy;
She saw the banners waving, she heard the people cheer;
She clasped her hands and bravely looked away to hide a t

The mother of a soldier-Ah! cheer the hero deed
And cheer the brave who battle 'neath the banner of their
But don't forget the mothers, through all the lonely years,
That fight the bravest battles on the sunless field of tears.

Nay, don't forget the mothers-the mothers of our men,
Who see them go and never know that they'll come back aga
That give them to their country to battle and to die,
Because the bugles call them and the starry banners fly.

The mother of a soldier-hats off to her I say!
Whose head is bowed in sorrow with its tender locks of gray
She gave without regretting, though her old heart sorely bled
When she found his name this morning in the long list of th
'Killed-Sergeant Thomas Watkins, while leading on the rest
His dear old mother's portrait clasped upon his hero breast!"
-Folger McKinsey, in Baltimore

;

Kearny at Seven Pines.*

panion.

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So that soldierly legend is still on its journey,-
That story of Kearny who knew not to yield!

'Twas the day when with Jameson, fierce Berry, and Birney,
Against twenty thousand he rallied the field.

Where the red volleys poured, where the clamor rose highest,
Where the dead lay in clumps through the dwarf oak and pine,
Where the aim from the thicket was surest and nighest,-
No charge like Phil Kearny's along the whole line.

When the battle went ill, and the bravest were solemn,

Near the dark Seven Pines, where we still held our ground,
He rode down the length of the withering column,

And his heart at our war-cry leapt up with a bound;
He snuffed, like his charger, the wind of the powder,-
His sword waved us on and we answered the sign:
Loud our cheer as we rushed, but his laugh rang the louder,
"There's the devil's own fun, boys, along the whole line!"

How he strode his brown steed! How we saw his blade brighten
In the one hand still left, and the reins in his teeth!
He laughed like a boy when the holidays heighten,

But a soldier's glance shot from his visor beneath.
Up came the reserves to the mellay infernal,

Asking where to go in, through the clearing or pine?
"O, anywhere! Forward! 'Tis all the same, Colonel:
You'll find lovely fighting along the whole line!"

O, evil the black shroud of night at Chantilly,
That hid him from sight of his brave men and tried!'
Foul, foul sped the bullet that clipped the white lily,

The flower of our knighthood, the whole army's pride!
Yet we dream that he still,-in that shadowy region
Where the dead form their ranks at the wan drummer's sign,—
Rides on, as of old, down the length of his legion,
And the word still is Forward! along the whole line.

deaa

-Edmund Clarence Siedman.

*Major-General Philip Kearny, killed at the battle of Chantilly, Sept. 1, 1862 Used by permission of Houghton, Mifflin & Co.

The flag, born of woman and presented by her for to George Washington, George Ross and Robert Morri little room of the upholder's shop, in Philadelphia, J 1777, has been growing in beauty, power, and glory all long line of years. Betsy Ross builded better than s The little wreath of thirteen stars, sanctified by the her fice of our ancestors and sent forth by Betsy Ross, has b out into a field of stars, placed in the blue, and kept a the heroism, courage and sacred baptism of blood, offere men and women of this great Republic.

WHY SHOULD WE HONOR THE FLAG?

Let us draw near to reflection, "that strange old wom sits always with one elbow on her knee and her chin in h and who steals light out of the past, to shed it on the fu Let us draw near to reflection, and hold with her a ca that she may tell us why we should honor the flag.

Some good writer in his Memorial address said, "entran the life of a soldier separates a man from all his past r ships. The whole order of his life is changed. All dut ambitions must be considered from a new standpoint, th himself re-adjusted to his position." This is literally true sealed to the flag, and he goes forth to follow where it le becomes part of his being, bidding farewell to his famil friends, as one who answers the last summons, he takes in his hands and turns his face towards death.

For every man of the immense army who has gone forth t death, we honor the flag. I have seen the flag come back from the battle's front, floating out to the breezes under skies, every ripple of its beautiful folds waved jubilee and amid the booming of cannons and blaze of trumpets, on the flag that has never known defeat. The stirring notes bugle and deep voiced drums send forth pæans of victory, ism and gladness. All the horrors of war are lost in son triumph.

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Behind the blue field I see a phantom procession. On they come! Washington, Jackson, Taylor, Scott, Grant, Sherman, Thomas, Sheridan and scores of others; Honor the flag! Lexington, Bunker Hill, New Orleans, Blackhawk, Lundy's Lane, Buena Vista, Gettysburg, Missionary Ridge, San Juan Hill, and the voice of the multitude shouts: This the glory, Honor the flag!

I have seen the flag when days were dark, soaked by the rains of heaven sobbing against the staff, weary women stood near, waiting for news from the front. Once more a phantom procession passes in review behind the blue field; a long line of weeping mothers, bowed low in grief for the husbands and sons they gave for the honor of the flag. The pale faces of "the boys" look up from those awful trenches. The bent figures of the martyrs from Andersonville and Belle Isle; the sad, heroic features of the sainted Lincoln; the bloody sacrifice of youth up San Juan Hill; and the low sweet voice of a mother whispers softly, "This the sacrifice; Honor the flag!"

Aye, honor the flag; and teach your children and your children's children to halt in life's great war-fare and join the loud acclaim, Hats off! The flag is passing by! For the glory, and for the sacrifice, Honor the flag!

Life's Mirror.

Mrs. Geo. C. Ginty.