Anita, thinking that he had fallen asleep, tried to arouse him, and cried out to him, “Father, don’t go to sleep—don’t you hear the music? And listen to the people’s cheer! Let us join in their cry, ‘Viva los Americanos!’ Oh, father, here they come! Look! look! all dressed in blue with that beautiful flag waving over them. See the ladies throw their wreaths of flowers on the ground before them! Wake up, dear father; please wake up. I will take the roses out of my hair and throw them, too.” And holding the hand of the old dead man on the rock bench at the fountain, little Anita threw her only rosebud to our Volunteers in Blue. One soldier in the ranks saw the child and picked up the flower. It brought to him memories of one back in Tennessee. The next day the city officials reported the death and burial of an old pauper, with many others, but the world never knew that the old man’s heart stopped beating with happiness over his country’s freedom, and none inquired what had become of the dark-eyed child who held his hand. Anita was all alone in the street, but the Tennessean who picked up her rosebud watched after her, and she soon became the pet of the American camp. New dresses, new shoes, new friends, made in her a great change, and she was soon the idol of the boys in blue. But again Anita stands at the fountain in the Plaza de Jesus all alone. The Tennessee Volunteers have been ordered home, they have done everything in their power to leave the child comfortable and in tender hands, but she follows them to the Plaza. Tears fill the eyes of the boys as they tell her good-bye; the flowers seem to wither in her hair, the smiles die on her lips, the old sorrow comes back in her eyes, her soldier friends are gone, the liberty flag is gone; the old rock bench by the fountain is empty; she is all alone on the Plaza to-night—poor little Anita. How much like Anita is Cuba, and how much like Cuba is Anita. WITHIN A VALLEY NARROW. BY INGRAM CROCKETT. Within a valley narrow I heard the vireo sing, And many a white-crowned sparrow, In silvery whispering. The blue-eyed grass was gleaming Upon a bank of green, And drowsy winds were dreaming The tulip trees between. Above a pool unwrinkled, Their faces fair to see The sunlight o’er them sprinkled, Leaned purple fleur-de-lis. And with a grace entrancing, Above the avens low, White butterflies were dancing In bright adagio. And while for them a cricket His silver strings did smite, From out a wild-grape thicket Was thrust a hand of white.