Within one of those wards a brave Highlander lay,
With the chill dews of death on his forehead of clay,
For a shell had struck him in the heat of the fray,
And his right arm and shoulder were carried away;
No word had he spoken--not a sound had he made,
Yet a shiver, at times, had his anguish betrayed,
And so calmly he lay without murmur or moan,
The gentle-voiced sister thought his spirit had flown.
The lamps burning dimly an uncertain light shed,
While the groans of the wounded, the stare of the dead,
Made an age of a night to the gentle and true,
That had waited and watched half its long hours through;
When the surgeon came in with a whisper of cheer,
And a nod and a glance at the cot that stood near,
When--"_Here_!" like a bugle blast, the dying man cried,
"_It is roll-call in Heaven_!" He answered and died.
_Anon._
* * * * *
THE DEAD DOLL.
You needn't be trying to comfort me--I tell you my dolly is dead!
There's no use in saying she isn't--with a crack like that in her head.
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