When earth’s last picture is painted and the tubes are twisted and dried, When the oldest colors have faded and the youngest critic has died, We shall rest—and, faith, we shall need it—lie down for an aeon or two Till the Master of all good workmen shall set us to work anew. And those that were good shall be happy, they shall sit in a golden chair, They shall splash at a ten-league canvas with brushes of comet’s hair; They shall find real saints to draw them—Magdalene, Peter and Paul— They shall work for an age at a sitting and never be tired at all. And only the Master shall praise us, and only the Master shall blame; And no one shall work for money, and no one shall work for fame; But each for the joy of the working, and each in his separate star, Shall draw the thing as he sees it for the God of Things as They Are! —_Rudyard Kipling._ “STONEWALL JACKSON’S WAY” Come, stack arms, men! Pile on the rails, Stir up the camp-fire bright; No growling if the canteen fails, We’ll make a roaring night. Here Shenandoah brawls along, There burly Blue Ridge echoes strong, To swell the brigade’s rousing song Of “Stonewall Jackson’s way.” We see him now—the queer slouched hat Cocked o’er his eye askew; The shrewd, dry smile; the speech so pat, So calm, so blunt, so true. The “Blue-Light Elder” knows ’em well: Says he, “That’s Banks—he’s fond of shell; Lord save his soul! we’ll give him—” Well! That’s “Stonewall Jackson’s way.” Silence! Ground arms! Kneel all! Caps off! Old Blue Light’s goin’ to pray. Strangle the fool that dares to scoff! Attention! it’s his way. Appealing from his native sod, _In forma pauperis_ to God:— “Lay bare thine arm! stretch forth thy rod! Amen!” That’s “Jackson’s way.” He’s in the saddle now. Fall in! Steady! the whole brigade! Hill’s at the ford, cut off; we’ll win His way out, ball and blade! What matter if our shoes are worn? What matter if our feet are torn? “Quick step! we’re with him before morn!” That’s “Stonewall Jackson’s way!” The sun’s bright lances rout the mists Of morning, and, by George! Here’s Longstreet, struggling in the lists, Hemmed in an ugly gorge; Pope and his Dutchman, whipped before. “Bay’nets and grape!” hear Stonewall roar; “Charge, Stuart! Pay off Ashby’s score!” In “Stonewall Jackson’s way.” Ah, maidens, wait and watch and yearn For news of Stonewall’s band! Ah, widow, read with eyes that burn, That ring upon thy hand! Ah, wife, sew on, pray on, hope on! Thy life shall not be all forlorn: The foe had better ne’er been born That gets in “Stonewall’s way.” —_John Williamson Palmer._ SOME TIME