[Illustration] AFTER ALL. BY WILLIAM WINTER The apples are ripe in the orchard, The work of the reaper is done, And the golden woodlands redden In the blood of the dying sun. At the cottage door the grandsire Sits pale in his easy-chair, While the gentle wind of twilight Plays with his silver hair. A woman is kneeling beside him; A fair young head is pressed, In the first wild passion of sorrow, Against his agéd breast. And far from over the distance The faltering echoes come Of the flying blast of trumpet And the rattling roll of the drum. And the grandsire speaks in a whisper: “The end, no man can see; But we gave him to his country, And we give our prayers to thee.” The violets star the meadows, The rosebuds fringe the door, And over the grassy orchard The pink-white blossoms pour. But the grandsire’s chair is empty, The cottage is dark and still; There’s a nameless grave in the battle-field, And a new one under the hill. And a pallid, tearless woman By the cold hearth sits alone, And the old clock in the corner Ticks on with a steady drone. [Illustration] “HE’LL SEE IT WHEN HE WAKES.” BY FRANK LEE. [In “Bugle Echoes” Mr. Francis F. Browne introduces this poem with the following note: “In one of the battles in Virginia, a gallant young Mississippian had fallen, and at night, just before burying him, there came a letter from his betrothed. One of the burial group took the letter and laid it upon the breast of the dead soldier, with the words: ‘Bury it with him. He’ll see it when he wakes.’”--EDITOR.] Amid the clouds of battle-smoke The sun had died away, And where the storm of battle broke A thousand warriors lay. A band of friends upon the field Stood round a youthful form Who, when the war-cloud’s thunder pealed, Had perished in the storm. Upon his forehead, on his hair, The coming moonlight breaks, And each dear brother standing there A tender farewell takes. But ere they laid him in his home There came a comrade near, And gave a token that had come From her the dead held dear. A moment’s doubt upon them pressed, Then one the letter takes, And lays it low upon his breast-- “He’ll see it when he wakes.” O thou who dost in sorrow wait, Whose heart with anguish breaks, Though thy dear message came too late, “He’ll see it when he wakes.”