There you go again!

Like the rush of rain

In great round drops on the window pane

In the jolly month of May;

Tis a funny song,

But it swings along,

And swings me, somehow, from care and wrong,

As light as the summer day.

When I come to think,

Mr. Bobolink,

Your rollicking, rattling spink-spank-spink

Is sweeter than any tune;

For it bears me back,

Over life's rough track,

To my boyhood days when I knew no lack,
And life was a long, sweet June.

Then sail away

O'er the fields, to-day,

With your kinky rhymes, in your sweet old way,
And fill my heart with spring;

I'm a boy again,

And my cares and pain

Have gone, like the fleeting summer rain,—
No-you need n't learn to sing!

Mr. Bobolink,

With your spink-spank-spink

When for me is broken the golden link

That chains my soul below,

Some day in spring,

O'er the green grave where I'm slumbering,

I shall laugh in my sleep, I know.

-Julian S. Cutler.

AT THE TOMB OF NAPOLEON.

A little while ago I stood by the grave of Napoleon—a magnificent tomb of gilt and gold, fit almost for a deity dead-and gazed upon the sarcophagus of rare and nameless marble, where rest at last the ashes of that restless man. I leaned over the balustrade, and thought about the career of the greatest soldier of the modern world. I saw him walking upon the banks of the Seine, contemplating suicide. I saw him at Toulon. I saw him putting down the mob in the streets of Paris. I saw him at the head of the army in Italy. I saw him crossing the bridge at Lodi with the tricolor in his hand. I saw him in Egypt, in the shadows of the pyramids. I saw him conquer the Alps, and mingle the eagles of France with the eagles of the crags. I saw him at Marengo, at Ulin, and at Austerlitz. I saw him in Russia, when the infantry of the snow and the cavalry of the wild blast scattered his legions like winter's withered leaves. I saw him at Leipsic, in defeat and disaster-driven by a million bayonets back upon Paris-clutched like a wild beast-banished to Elba. I saw him escape and re-take an empire by the force of his genius. I saw him upon the frightful field of Waterloo, where chance and fate combined to wreck the fortunes of their former king. And I saw him at St. Helena, with his hands crossed behind him, gazing out upon the sad and solemn

sea.

I thought of the widows and orphans he had made, of the tears that had been shed for his glory, and of the only woman who ever loved him, pushed from his heart by the cold hand of ambition. And I said, I would rather have been a French peasant and worn wooden shoes; I would rather have lived in a hut with a vine growing over the door, and the grapes growing purple in the amorous kisses of the autumn sun; I would rather have been that poor peasant, with my wife by my side knitting as the day died out of the sky, with my children upon my knees and their arms about me; I would rather have been this man and gone down to the tongueless silence of the dreamless dust, than to have been that imperial personation of force and murder known as Napoleon the Great.

Say "Hello!" and "How d'

Other folks are 's good as you.

you

do?"

When you leave your house of clay,

Wandering in the far away,

When you travel in that strange

Country t' other side the range,

Then the folks you've cheered will know

Who you are, and say "Hello!"

THE END OF THE REBELLION.

[ADAPTED FROM MRS. LIVERMORE, BY SARAH NEAL HARRIS.]

As the day drew near when the death blow would be given to the Rebellion, a hushed expectancy settled over the country. The return of peace was longed for with an intensity not to be expressed in words; and the movements of the great armies, as they drew more closely together for a last final grapple, were watched with indescribable eagerness. General Sherman had prepared for his march to the sea. Rome and Atlanta were burned. For twentyfour days Sherman's army disappeared from the North, lost in the very heart of the Rebellion.

The success of this march through the South was not believed in, and, from the middle of November until Sherman was heard of at Savannah, there was great anxiety at the North. Having rested his army and completed his plans, he began his campaign through the Carolinas. His movements now attracted the attention of the whole country. What will this wonderful man do next? was the question in every one's mouth.

He led his army through the heart of the two hostile Carolinas, five hundred miles north to Goldsboro, and on the night of the 16th of February, Charleston, South Carolina, was evacuated, and the Union flag once more floated over Fort Sumter.

The march of events was now very rapid, and on the ninth of April, 1865, General Lee surrendered his sword and the Army of Northern Virginia to the eminent Lieutenant-General commanding the armies of the United States. The rebel army of Johnston, with Sherman in his front and Grant in his rear, must dissolve like the baseless fabric of a vision, or likewise surrender to the victorious armies of the Union.

The great Rebellion had ended. The iron-throated cannons took up the jubilant tidings, and thundered it from a hundred guns. Bonfires blazed it joyfully in all the streets, the huzzas and songs of the people rolled out from the heart of a nation. Flags floated from steeples and house-tops and windows. At every street corner one caught the sound of martial music. Processions were hastily improvised,—the blue-coated soldiers stepping proudly to glorious music, thrilling the air with the triumphant strain “Glory, glory,

Hallelujah!" The great multitude-tens of thousands of men, women, and children-caught up the refrain and joined in the glorious chorus, singing, with heart and soul and might, "Glory, glory, Hallelujah!"

The day for which all loyal souls had prayed and waited for four long years had come at last. The nation was delirious with the intoxication of the good news telegraphed from Washington,"Lee has surrendered to Grant!"

WHAT THE CHOIR SANG.

Attending services not long ago in an elegant church, where they worship God with taste and in a highly aesthetic manner, the choir began that scriptural poem which compares Solomon with the lilies of the field somewhat to the former's disadvantage. Although not possessing a great admiration for Solomon, nor considering him a suitable person to hold up as a shining example before the Young Men's Christian Association, still a pang of pity for him was felt, when the choir, after expressing unbounded admiration for the lilies of the field-which it is doubtful if they ever observed very closely-began to tell the congregation, through the mouth of the soprano, that "Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed." Straightway the soprano was reënforced by the bass, who declared that Solomon was most decidedly and emphatically not arrayed -was not arrayed. Then the alto ventured it as her opinion that "Solomon was not arrayed," when the tenor, without a moment's hesitation, sung as if it had been officially announced that "he was not arrayed." Then, when the feelings of the congregation had been harrowed up sufficiently, and our sympathies all aroused for poor Solomon, whose numerous wives allowed him to go about in such a fashion, even in that climate, the choir altogether, in a most cool and composed manner, informed us that the idea they intended to convey was "that Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these." These what? So long a time had elapsed since they sung of the lilies, that the thread was entirely lost, and by "these " one naturally concluded that the choir was designated. Arrayed like one of these? We should think not, indeed! Solomon in a Prince Albert or a cutaway coat? Solomon with an