ON BROADWAY.
By Etta W. Pierce
A wave of streamers—a stifled hum,
Then the ringing of cheers throughout the welkin high,
And the sound of bugle and fife and drum,
As proudly the troops came marching by.
Marching by with their measured tread,
All bronzed by the sun of the Southern land,
Bayonets gleaming and banners spread—
The dauntless of heart and the strong of hand.
Oh, the old blood warmed in my veins that day,
And the tears leaped up so thick and so proud
I scarcely could see the street or the crowd,
As home came the regiment up Broadway.
For you see it was two long years before—
Ah me! they had seemed so many more—
When the leaves were green on the tender thorn,
And the linnets were singing amid the corn,
When my boy Charlie went marching away
With the gallant hundred of Company A.
He was young of mien—he was slender and fair,
With his laughing eyes and his yellow hair;
But dauntless as any, as loyal and true,
The lad of my heart in his soldier blue!
'Twas a dark and dreadful day, you know,
And what could I do but to bid him go,
And pray that God would take care of the rest?
Though he was my all, and 'twas hard at best.
Ah, there was never a doubt or a pause
When he pledged his fresh young life to the cause—
'Twas a heart's free gift, but I knew, at last,
The pain was over—the waiting past,
And that was why I was glad that day,
when I heard the sound of bugle and drum,
When I saw them coming so gallantly home—
My brave boy's regiment up Broadway!
Steadily—steadily, ah, what a sight
For my old dim eyes, when the noonday light
Fell on them close in the crowded way–
I looked for the banner of Company A.
It was there—high-waving, I saw it again
From the battle's baptism of purple rain,
Pierced with the bullet, and rent with the ball;
And the faces beneath it—I looked at them all—
I looked at them all, but the sunny hair
And the eyes of my darling, they were not there.
They were not there with their sparkle and shine,
Nor anywhere gleaming along the line,
And reeling backward to and fro
The street and the crowd they seemed to go.
I pressed through the ranks so brown and tall,
I asked where my gallant lad might be—
"Killed in the trenches!" they answered me
"Killed in the trenches!"—and that was all.
Under the light of that noonday sky,
Where the cheers of the crowd rang long and high,
To the sound of the music, so gallant and gay,
On went the regiment up Broadway.
I never shall look on my darling again
When the linnets are singing amid the grain.
Oh gallant head, oh ringlets of gold,
Oh blue eyes hid in the trenches' mould,
All that the wide world had for me
I have laid at the shrine of Liberty!
ENIGMAS.
BY MISS L. M. ALCOTT.
(Concluded from No. 450.)
June 8th.—Found the house silent as a tomb, and fancy the sound of carriage wheels which half woke me at dawn was the only farewell I shall receive from poor madame. A long, quiet day. Noel returned at dusk, and went straight to his room. I seized my hat, concealed myself in the lane and watched the leafy window. Presently it blazed with light, and but for the appearance of Pierre in the garden I should have been tempted to execute my resolve at once. Hearing the rattle of the chain that holds the gate, I sprang into the footpath which turns into the lane from the fields. Pierre showed small surprise at meeting me, as these meadows are my favorite walk, and my assumption of simplicity has quite blindfolded this old watchdog. Anxious to see how he would explain it, I asked, as if just discovering the window:
"What is that light among the leaves, does the roof burn?"
"Oh, no, monsieur, it is my master's studio. He paints as he does everything else—divinely. For that room he took the cottage; an artist built it, and though he does little now, he often lounges there at night."
The answer came so readily, and seemed so natural an explanation I could not but believe it, and saying I should go in and read, I left him. From my window I watched him far along the avenue, he and the maids chatting in the grove, knew that madame's nurse had gone with her from a word Pierre dropped at dinner, and felt that my time had come. It was a moonless evening, fast deepening into night; a light wind was blowing that filled the air with rustling sounds, and the house was quite deserted for the time. I had no fear—excitement is my element, daring my delight, and I desired to earn my liberal reward for this dishonorable but alluring service.
Leaving my hat behind me, I crept to the western wing, with every sense alert. Not by the vines did I ascend, but by a slender Norway pine, whose stem, being branchless for many feet above the ground, seemed to forbid approach by that means. Practice made me agile, and I was soon upon the first bough which touched the roof. With catlike steps I picked my way, crouching low and making no sound louder than the whispers of the wind. The window was closed, and all I heard was a murmur of voices, but parting the leaves at one shaded corner I lay flat and looked down.
A long, lofty room was below, full of light, soft colors, lovely shapes, but how furnished I cannot tell, for its occupants absorbed me instantly. Stretched his full length on a couch lay Noel, looking like a luxuriously indolent young sultan, in crimson dressing-gown and Turkish slippers. He was laughing, and till then I had never seen the real beauty of his face; some cloud of reserve, distrust or melancholy had veiled it from me, but at last I saw the boy's true self, and felt that nothing was impossible to such as he. His white throat was bare, his black curls tumbled, his hands clasped above his head, and as he laughed he hummed a sprightly air, in which a softer voice joined fitfully.
At first he alone was visible, but soon down the long room came a woman dancing like an elf. Great heavens! how beautiful she was! She wore some foreign dress, brilliant and piquante, a lovely neck and arms shone white against the gold and scarlet of her bodice, and bare rosy feet scarcely seemed to touch the carpet. Dark eyes glittered through a stream of rippling gold hair, a sweet, red mouth was smiling, and as she danced the bloom no art can give deepened beautifully on her cheek.
