Soft they slumber,
We their lives do not forget.
Childish hands with rose and lily
Showering the furrows green,
Childish songs that lift and warble
Where the sleepers lie serene
(Soft they slumber)
Tell how true our hearts have been.
Wave the dear old flag above them,
Play the sweet old bugle call,
And because they died in honor
O'er them let the flowerets fall.
Soft they slumber,
Dreaming, stirring not at all.
Freedom's host of silent sleepers,
Where they lie is holy ground,
Heeding not our restless clamor,
Musket's rattle, trumpet's sound.
Soft they slumber,
Ever wrapped in peace profound.
Presence of Mind.
BY MARGARET E. SANGSTER.
Such a forlorn little sunbonnet bobbing here and there among the bean
poles in the garden back of Mr. Mason's house! It seemed as if the blue
gingham ruffles and the deep cape must know something about the troubled
little face they hid away, for they hung in a limp fashion that was
enough to tell anybody who saw them just how badly the wearer of the
sunbonnet was feeling. She had, as she thought, more than her share of
toil and trouble in this busy world, and to-day she had a specially good
reason to carry a heavy heart in her little breast.
All Morningside was in a perfect flutter of anticipation and excitement.
There had never been a lawn party in the little village before, and
Effie Dean, twelve years old to-day, was to have a lawn party, to which
every child for miles, to say nothing of a gay troop of cousins and
friends from the city, had been invited.
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