Rein up your hot horses And call in your men,-- The trumpet sounds “_Rally_ _To colors!_” again. Some saddles are empty, Some comrades are slain, And some noble horses Lie stark on the plain; But war’s a chance game, boys, And weeping is vain. [Illustration] ROLL-CALL. BY N. G. SHEPHERD. “Corporal Green!” the Orderly cried; “Here!” was the answer, loud and clear, From the lips of the soldier who stood near,-- And “Here!” was the word the next replied. “Cyrus Drew!”--then a silence fell: This time no answer followed the call; Only his rear-man had seen him fall: Killed or wounded--he could not tell. There they stood in the failing light, These men of battle, with grave, dark looks, As plain to be read as open books, While slowly gathered the shades of night. The fern on the hill-sides was splashed with blood, And down in the corn where the poppies grew Were redder stains than the poppies knew; And crimson-dyed was the river’s flood. For the foe had crossed from the other side That day, in the face of a murderous fire That swept them down in its terrible ire, And their life-blood went to color the tide. “Herbert Kline!” At the call there came Two stalwart soldiers into the line, Bearing between them this Herbert Kline, Wounded and bleeding, to answer his name. “Ezra Kerr!”--and a voice answered, “Here!” “Hiram Kerr!”--but no man replied. They were brothers, these two; the sad winds sighed, And a shudder crept through the cornfield near. “Ephraim Deane!”--then a soldier spoke: “Deane carried our regiment’s colors,” he said; “Where our ensign was shot I left him dead, Just after the enemy wavered and broke. “Close to the road-side his body lies; I paused a moment and gave him a drink; He murmured his mother’s name, I think, And Death came with it, and closed his eyes.” ’Twas a victory; yes, but it cost us dear,-- For that company’s roll, when called at night, Of a hundred men who went into the fight, Numbered but twenty that answered “Here!” [Southern.] [Illustration] READING THE LIST. “Is there any news of the war?” she said. “Only a list of the wounded and dead,” Was the man’s reply, Without lifting his eye To the face of the woman standing by. “’Tis the very thing I want,” she said; “Read me a list of the wounded and dead.” He read the list--’twas a sad array Of the wounded and killed in the fatal fray. In the very midst, was a pause to tell Of a gallant youth who fought so well That his comrades asked: “Who is he, pray?” “The only son of the Widow Gray,” Was the proud reply Of his captain nigh-- What ails the woman standing near? Her face has the ashen hue of fear!