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III. THE CONQUERED BANNER1

Furl that banner, for 'tis weary;
Round its staff 'tis drooping dreary;
Furl it, fold it, it is best;

For there's not a man to wave it,
And there's not a sword to save it,
And there's not one left to lave it
In the blood which heroes gave it;
And its foes now scorn and brave it;
Furl it, hide it; let it rest!

Take that banner down! 'tis tattered;
Broken is its staff and shattered;
And the valiant hosts are scattered

Over whom it floated high.

Oh! 'tis hard for us to fold it;

Hard to think there's none to hold it;
Hard that those who once unrolled it
Now must furl it with a sigh.

Furl that banner! furl it sadly!
Once ten thousands hailed it gladly,

And ten thousands wildly, madly,

Swore it should forever wave;

By Abram J. Ryan, an American clergyman, usually known as Father Ryan (1839-1886).

Swore that foeman's sword should never

Hearts like theirs entwined dissever
And that flag should float forever
O'er their freedom or their grave.

Furl it! for the hands that grasped it,
And the hearts that fondly clasped it,
Cold and dead are lying low;
And that banner - it is trailing,
While around it sounds the wailing
Of its people in their woe.

For, though conquered, they adore it,
Love the cold, dead hands that bore it,
Weep for those who fell before it,
Pardon those who trailed and tore it,
But, oh, wildly they deplore it,
Now to furl and fold it so!

Furl that banner! True, 'tis gory,
Yet 'tis wreathed around with glory,
And 'twill live in song and story,

Though its folds are in the dust;
For its fame on brightest pages,
Penned by poets and by sages,
Shall go sounding down the ages -

Furl its folds though now we must.

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WHEN WAR SHALL BE NO MORE1

Were half the power that fills the world with terror,
Were half the wealth bestowed on camps and courts,
Given to redeem the human mind from error,
There were no need of arsenals and forts:

The warrior's name would be a name abhorred !
And every nation that should lift again
Its hand against a brother, on its forehead
Would wear forevermore the curse of Cain!

Down the dark future, through long generations,
The echoing sounds grow fainter and then cease ;
And like a bell, with solemn, sweet vibrations,

I hear once more the voice of Christ say, "Peace!"

Peace! and no longer from its brazen portals

The blast of War's great organ shakes the skies; But beautiful as songs of the immortals,

The holy melodies of love arise.

1 From "The Arsenal at Springfield," by Henry W. Longfellow.

THE YOUNG SERF1

It was towards the close of a September day. Old Gregor and his grandson Sasha were returning home through the forest with their bundles of wood. The old man stooped low under the weight of the heavy sticks he carried, while the boy dragged his great bunch of twigs and splints by a rope drawn over his shoulder. Where the trees grew thick, the air was already quite gloomy, but in the open spaces they could see the sky and tell how near it was to sunset.

Both were silent, for they were tired, and it is not easy to talk and carry a heavy load at the same time. But presently something gray appeared through the trees, at the foot of a low hill. It was the rock where they always rested on the way home. Old Gregor laid down his bundle there, and wiped his face on the sleeve of his brown jacket. Sasha sprang upon the rock and began to balance himself upon one foot, as was his habit whenever he tried to think about anything. "Grandfather," he said at last, "why should all the forest belong to the Baron, and none of it to you?”

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Gregor looked at him sharply for a moment before he answered: "It was his father's and his grandfather's. It has been the property of the family for many a hundred years, and we have never had any." 1 Abridged from "Boys of Other Countries," by Bayard Taylor, an American traveler and writer (1825-1878).

"I know that," said Sasha. "But why did it come so at first?"

Gregor shook his head. "You might as well ask how the world was made." Then, seeing that the boy looked troubled, he added in a kinder tone: "What put such a thought into your head?"

"Why, the forest itself!" Sasha cried. "The Baron lets us have the top branches and little twigs, but he always takes the logs and sells them for money. I know all the trees, and he doesn't; and there's many a tree that would say to me, if it could talk: 'I'd rather belong to you, Sasha, because I know you.""

"Aye, and the moon would say the same to you, boy, and the sun and stars, maybe. You might as well want to own them, — and you don't even belong to yourself."

Gregor's voice was very sad. Sasha looked at him and knew not what to say, but he felt that his heart was beating violently. All at once he heard a rustling among the dead leaves, and a sound like steps approaching. The old man took hold of his grandson's arm and made a sign to him to be silent. The sound came nearer, and presently they could distinguish some dusky object moving towards them through the trees.

"Is it a robber?" whispered Sasha.

"It is not a man. I see his head; it is a bear. Keep quiet, boy! make no noise. Take this tough stick, but hold it at your side, as I do with mine. Look

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