The blood flowed fast from my wounded side, And then for a while I forgot my pain, And over the lakelet we seemed to glide In our little boat, two boys again. And then, in my dream, we stood alone On a forest path where the shadows fell; And I heard again the tremulous tone And the tender words of his last farewell. But that parting was years, long years ago, He wandered away to a foreign land; And our dear old mother will never know That he died to-night by his brother’s hand. * * * * * The soldiers who buried the dead away Disturbed not the clasp of that last embrace, But laid them to sleep till the judgment day, Heart folded to heart, and face to face. [Illustration] DRIVING HOME THE COWS. BY KATE PUTNAM OSGOOD. Out of the clover and blue-eyed grass, He turned them into the river-lane; One after another he let them pass, Then fastened the meadow bars again. Under the willows, and over the hill, He patiently followed their sober pace; The merry whistle for once was still, And something shadowed the sunny face. Only a boy! and his father had said He never could let his youngest go; Two already were lying dead Under the feet of the trampling foe. But after the evening work was done, And the frogs were loud in the meadow swamp, Over his shoulder he slung his gun, And stealthily followed the foot-path damp. Across the clover and through the wheat, With resolute heart and purpose grim, Though cold was the dew on his hurrying feet, And the blind bat’s flitting startled him. Thrice since then had the lanes been white, And the orchards sweet with apple-bloom; And now when the cows came back at night, The feeble father drove them home. For news had come to the lonely farm That three were lying where two had lain; And the old man’s tremulous, palsied arm Could never lean on a son’s again. The summer day grew cold and late, He went for the cows when the work was done; But down the lane, as he opened the gate, He saw them coming, one by one,-- Brindle, Ebony, Speckle, and Bess, Shaking their horns in the evening wind; Cropping the buttercups out of the grass,-- But who was it following close behind? Loosely swung in the idle air The empty sleeve of army blue; And worn and pale from the crisping hair Looked out a face that the father knew. For Southern prisons will sometimes yawn, And yield their dead unto life again; And the day that comes with a cloudy dawn In golden glory at last may wane. The great tears sprang to their meeting eyes; For the heart must speak when the lips are dumb; And under the silent evening skies, Together they followed the cattle home. [Illustration]