a little maiden stood.
A tiny tot of six or seven, from fireside fresh she seemed,
(Of such a little one in heaven one soldier often dreamed.)
And as we stared, her little hand went to her curly head
In grave salute. "And who are _you_?" at length the sergeant said.
"And where's your home?" he growled again. She lisped out, "Who is me?
Why, don't you know? I'm little Jane, the Pride of Battery B.
My home? Why, that was burned away, and pa and ma are dead;
And so I ride the guns all day along with Sergeant Ned.
And I've a drum that's not a toy, a cap with feathers, too;
And I march beside the drummer boy on Sundays at review.
But now our 'bacca's all give out, the men can't have their smoke,
And so they're cross--why, even Ned won't play with me and joke.
And the big colonel said to-day--I hate to hear him swear--
He'd give a leg for a good pipe like the Yanks had over there.
And so I thought when beat the drum, and the big guns were still,
I'd creep beneath the tent and come out here across the hill
And beg, good Mister Yankee men, you'd give me some 'Lone Jack.'
Please do: when we get some again, I'll surely bring it back.
Indeed I will, for Ned--says he,--if I do what I say,
I'll be a general yet, maybe, and ride a prancing bay."

We brimmed her tiny apron o'er; you should have heard her laugh
As each man from his scanty store shook out a generous half.
To kiss the little mouth stooped down a score of grimy men,
Until the sergeant's husky voice said,"'Tention squad!" and then
We gave her escort, till good-night the pretty waif we bid,
And watched her toddle out of sight--or else 'twas tears that hid
Her tiny form--nor turned about a man, nor spoke a word,
Till after awhile a far, hoarse shout upon the wind we heard!
We sent it back, then cast sad eyes upon the scene around;
A baby's hand had touched the ties that brothers once had bound.

That's all--save when the dawn awoke again the work of hell,
And through the sullen clouds of smoke the screaming missiles fell,
Our general often rubbed his glass, and marveled much to see
Not a single shell that whole day fell in the camp of Battery B.

_Frank H. Gassaway._

The Wood-Box

It was kept out in the kitchen, and 'twas long and deep and wide,
And the poker hung above it and the shovel stood beside,
And the big, black cookstove, grinnin' through its grate from ear to ear,
Seemed to look as if it loved it like a brother, pretty near.
Flowered oilcloth