woman, Mrs. C. M. Kirkland, said to the author,
shortly after the fall of Fort Sumter: 'If you cannot shoulder a musket,
you can blow a bugle.' In this, and in a previous book, he has attempted
to blow that bugle. If the blasts are not as musical as they might be,
he has no apology to make for them. They have, at least, the ring of
_truth;_ and whether they please the public ear, or not, the author is
satisfied; for he knows that each one of his children will say of him,
when he is gone:

'_My_ father did not stand by with folded arms, while this great nation
was threatened with ruin. Against his best friends--against the
convictions of a lifetime--he spoke the TRUTH! He _tried_ to do
something for his country.'

'MAY MORNING'

Oh! the sky is blue, and the sward is green,
And the soft winds wake from the balmy west,--
The leaves unfold in their gilded sheen,
And the bird, in the tree top, builds its nest;
The truant zephyr plumes her wings
Once more, and quitting her perfumed bed,
Soft calls on the sleeping flowers to wake,
And sportive roams o'er each dewclad head.

The bluebells nod within the wood,
The snowdrop peeps from its milky bell,
The motley Thora bends her hood,
Whilst beauteous wild flowers line the dell;
The wildbrier rose its fragrance breathes,
The violet opes her cup of blue,
The timid primrose lifts its leaves,
And kingcups wake, all bathed in dew.

From flower to flower the wild bee roams,
Then buried within the cowslip's cup,
He murmurs his low and music tones,
Till she folds the wanton intruder up;
The spring bird, wakening, soars on high,
Gushing aloft its melting lay;
Whilst painted clouds flit o'er the sky,
All ushering in the dawn of May!

Like a laughing nymph she springs to light,
And tripping along in the world of flowers,
Brushes the dew, in the morning bright,
And weaves a joy for each heart of ours!
With frolic hands, the daisy meek,
From her lap of green she playful throws;
Whilst the loveliest flowers spring round her feet,
And fragrance bursts from the wild wood rose!

Oh! glad is the heart, as through leafing trees
The soft winds roam and in music play;
Whilst the sick come forth for the healing breeze,
And rejoice in the birth of the beauteous May,
And glad is the heart of the joyous child,
As bounding away through the tangled dell,
It roams