d leaving the other alive as ever----
As each wades through that ghastly stream,
The satins that rustle and gems that gleam,
Will grow pale and heavy, and sink away
To the noisome River's bottom-clay!
Then the costly bride and her maidens six
Will shiver upon the bank of the Styx,
Quite as helpless as they were born----
Naked souls, and very forlorn;
The Princess, then, must shift for herself,
And lay her royalty on the shelf;
She, and the beautiful Empress, yonder,
Whose robes are now the wide world's wonder,
And even ourselves, and our dear little wives,
Who calico wear each morn of their lives,
And the sewing-girls, and _les chiffonniers_,
In rags and hunger--a gaunt array----
And all the grooms of the caravan----
Ay, even the great Don Rataplan
Santa Claus de la Muscovado
Senor Grandissimo Bastinado----
That gold-encrusted, fortunate man----
All will land in naked equality:
The lord of a ribboned principality
Will mourn the loss of his _cordon_;
Nothing to eat and nothing to wear
Will certainly be the fashion there!
Ten to one, and I'll go it alone;
Those most used to a rag and bone,
Though here on earth they labor and groan,
Will stand it best, as they wade abreast
To the other side of Jordan.

* * * * *

When Grant's army crossed the Rappahannock Lee's veterans felt sure of
sending it back as "tattered and torn" as ever it had been under the new
general's numerous predecessors. After the crossing, the first prisoners
caught by Mosby were asked many questions by curious Confederates.

"What has become of your pontoon train?" said one such inquirer.

"We haven't got any," answered the prisoner.

"How do you expect to get over the river when you go back?"

"Oh," said the Yankee, "we are not going back. Grant says that all the
men he sends back can cross on a log."

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL

WHAT MR. ROBINSON THINKS

Guvener B. is a sensible man;
He stays to his home an' looks arter his folks;
He draws his furrer ez straight ez he can,
An' into nobody's tater-patch pokes;
But John P.
Robinson he
Sez he wun't vote fer Guvener B.

My! ain't it terrible? Wut shall we du?
We can't never choose him o' course--thet's flat;
Guess we shall hev to come round (don't you?)
An' go in fer thunder an' guns, an' all that;
Fer John P.