Would the lists of the slain who slumber On the Danube’s battle-plains The unknown hosts outnumber Who die, ’neath the “Danube’s” strains? Those fall where cannons rattle, ’Mid the rain of shot and shell; But these, in a fiercer battle, Find death in the music’s swell. With the river’s roar of passion Is blended the dying groan; But here, in the halls of fashion, Hearts break and make no moan. And the music, swelling and sweeping, Like the river, knows it all; But none are counting or keeping The lists of those who fall. THE BIRTH OF THE OPAL. The Sunbeam loved the Moonbeam, And followed her low and high; But the Moonbeam fled and hid her head-- She was so shy, so shy. The Sunbeam wooed with passion, Ah! he was a lover bold; And his heart was afire with mad desire For the Moonbeam, pale and cold. She fled like a dream before him, Her hair was a shining sheen; And, oh, that Fate would annihilate The space that lay between! Just as the Day lay panting In the arms of the Twilight dim, The Sunbeam caught the one he sought And drew her close to him. But out of his warm arms startled, And stirred by love’s first shock, She sprang afraid, like a trembling maid, And hid in the niche of a rock. And the Sunbeam followed and found her, And led her to love’s own feast, And they were wed on that rocky bed, And the dying Day was their priest. And, lo! the beautiful Opal, That rare and wondrous gem, Where the Moon and Sun blend into one, Is the child that was born to them. SOUNDS FROM THE BASEBALL FIELD. Batter in the home place, That was nobly done; Try and get the first base-- Run! RUN! RUN! Ah, there, short stop, will you miss? Hear the people cheer and hiss, Hear them yell and shout. Twinkling legs and flying feet-- (Oh, I wonder who will beat!) Faster, faster, out! Umpire, umpire, go along; That was wrong, sir, that was wrong. Pitcher pitches, four balls, “Take your base, my man,” Toward the second now he crawls-- “Steal it if you can.” Oh, the ball has gone so high, Can they catch it on the fly? Ah, there is no doubt, He will get his third, I vow-- Pshaw! the ball has got there now, “Two men out!” Umpire, umpire, that was wrong; Go along, sir, go along. One man on the first base, Not a single run. Boys are warming to the race-- Now look out for fun. Pitcher’s arm maybe is tired; Batter sudden seems inspired, Grounds the ball to win. Run there, run there, run your best, I am screaming with the rest: “Two men in!” Umpire, umpire, go away; Dead wrong, dead wrong, sir, I say.