Washing the tea-things, with bared white arms, And softly humming a love refrain; With smooth brown braids, and cheeks of rose, Washed and warbled his daughter Jane. She was the gift that his dear wife left, When she died, some nineteen Mays before; The light and the warmth of the old farm-home, And cherished by him to his great heart's core. A sweet, fair girl; yet 'twas not so much The fashion of feature that made her so; 'Twas love's own tenderness in her eyes, And on her cheeks love's sunrise glow. Done were the tea-things; the rounded arms Again were covered, the wide hearth brushed; Then from the mantle she took some work, 'Twas a soldier's sock, and her song was hushed. Her song was hushed; for tenderer thoughts Than ever were bodied in word or sound, Trembled like stars in her downcast eyes, As she knit in the dark yarn round and round. A neighbor's rap at the outer door Was answered at once by a bluff 'Come in!' And he came, with stamping of heavy boots, Frost-wreathed brow and muffled chin. Come up to the fire! Pretty cold to-night. What news do you get from the village to-day? Did you call for our papers? Ah! yes, much obliged. What news do you get from our Company K?' 'Bad news!--bad news!' He slowly unwinds His muffler, and wipes his frost-fringed eyes. 'Frank Wilson was out on the picket last night, And was killed by some cursed rebel spies.' O God! give strength to that writhing heart! Fling the life back to that whitening cheek! Let not the pent breath forever stay From the lips, too white and dumb to speak! 'Frank Wilson killed? ah! too bad--too bad, The finest young man, by far, in this town; Such are the offerings we give to war, Jane, draw a fresh mug for our neighbor Brown.' Neither did notice her faltering step; Neither gave heed to her quivering hand, That awkwardly fumbled the cellar-door, And spilled the cider upon the stand. But the father dreamed, as he slept that night, That his darling had met some fearful woe; And he dreamed of hearing her stifled moans, And her slow steps pacing to and fro. II. 'Twas an April day, in the balmy spring, The farmhouse fires had gone to sleep, The windows were open to sun and breeze, The hills were dotted with snowy sheep.