In the back portion of the wagon sat two persons; one was an old woman with a swarthy, wrinkled face, and the other was a beautiful little girl about ten years of age. Her hair was not black as was that of the old woman, it was of a rich chestnut hue, and her complexion, although darkened by the sun, was extremely fair; but her eyes! oh, they were the rarest of brown eyes! and as she turned them inquiringly towards the old crone, they seemed like pansies wet with dew; so velvety, so liquid. Without saying a word, she let her long silken lashes drop until her lovely eyes were fixed upon the blankets that lay at her feet. The old woman was restless and looked through the curtain windows towards the cottage.

Mean while the men had reached the porch. Their movements were noiseless and cat-like. The dark-visaged man drew a handkerchief from his breast pocket, and the stupid looking fellow held a stout cord in his right hand. In an instant they gagged and bound little Edith and rapidly bore her to the rear of the wagon, when, opening the leather door, they handed her struggling form to the old crone, who stood ready to receive her. Quickly shutting the wagon door, the stupid-looking fellow mounted his seat, the dark-visaged man leaped upon the back of his mule, and in a twinkling the gypsies had disappeared behind a bend in the road.

As soon as the little girl with brown eyes saw the men bring Edith to the wagon she trembled and began to weep. The old crone shook her finger at her and bade her to have a care what she did. Then turning to Edith she said, “I will remove the gag from your mouth if you promise not to make any noise.” Edith, who was almost frightened to death, nodded her head whereupon the old crone untied the handkerchief not from kindness, but fear that the child would suffocate. Poor Edith sobbed as though her heart would break, and more than once looked appealingly at the brown-eyed girl. The latter, whenever the crone turned her head, glanced at Edith and tried in every possible way to mutely assure her of her sympathy and friendship.

The gypsies drove very fast for several miles, when they suddenly left the main road and turned into a narrow lane that led through a dense forest. The horses were then allowed to slacken their speed. After an hour’s drive the party came upon a gypsy encampment in an open space. The forest trees formed a semi-circle about the sides and rear of the camp while the front was somewhat protected from view by the wagons, which were ranged on a line with the lane.

The lank horses neighed as they entered the clearing, and in a moment the wagon was surrounded by a swarm of tawny-skinned people, men, women and children. Without speaking a word to any one, save the crone, the dark-visaged man led Edith and the brown-eyed little girl to a tent which they entered. “Now,” said he, for the first time speaking to Edith, “if you are a good girl, you will be treated well, but if you are a cross and troublesome, look out! And you, Little Brown Eyes,” he: continued, “see that your mate eats her supper when it comes. That’s all.” He then left them.

Edith advanced to the little girl and was about to speak, when the latter raised her finger, shook her head, and pointed to the door. Edith looked in the direction indicated, and saw the old crone seated without, just in the act of lighting her pipe. “You can talk, but speak low; old Myra will try to hear what we say,” and the little brown-eyed girl kissed Edith on the forehead.

“Oh, I am so dreadfully frightened,” whispered Edith, “will they never take me home again?” “I cannot tell,” replied the child. “I, too, was taken from my home, a long, long time ago; but Myra and Ike――that was Ike who came with us to the tent――say they will take me home some day. My name is Mary, yet they call me Little Brown Eyes; maybe they’ll call you Little Blue Eyes.”

This conversation was cut short by the entrance of a gypsy boy, who brought two tin plates of chicken stew, some bread and a big bowl of milk. He said nothing, merely placing their supper on the ground, when he walked out again without so much as looking at them. Little Brown Eyes sat on one end of an empty sack and motioned Edith to sit on the other end; which she did.

The little girls, in spite of their low spirits, could not resist the savory smell of the stew, for they were very hungry, and in a short time nothing remained of what the gypsy boy brought them except the empty bowls and the two tin plates. All at once there was a great noise in the camp. The tramping of horses’ feet could be heard, and the voices of men shouting; what could it mean? The little girls looked at one another in utter wonderment. “Let us peep out,” said Little Brown Eyes, and raising one corner of the canvas they looked out. Everything was in confusion. A body of horsemen were pulling down the tents, some of the gypsies were fleeing to the woods, while others were opposing the horsemen with all their might. Just then the dark-visaged man and Myra entered the tent. “Come, quick,” yelled the man, “this way,” and taking hold of each little girl, he pulled them to the door. Edith uttered a scream. Immediately the horsemen galloped toward them. “My papa! my papa!” cried Little Brown Eyes. A fine looking gentleman leaped from his horse, and in a moment his daughter was clasped in his arms. “Take these people prisoners,” said he, “they shall pay dearly for kidnapping my daughter. Who is this?” he continued, looking at Edith. “This, papa, is a little girl Ike stole to-day, as she lay asleep on her front porch.” “Poor child, we must return her to her parents,” spoke Little Brown Eyes’ papa; “come, we will go away from here at once.” So the little girls were led away to the lane where stood waiting a splendid carriage. “Oh, see! there comes brother Frank in his donkey-cart,” and clapping her hands with joy, Edith pointed down the lane, where, sure enough, her brother came jogging along as complacently as if nothing had happened.

The rest of the horsemen rode up to the carriage, and were about to start, when one of their number said, “Look! we have fixed the gypsies.” All looked toward the camp. It was in a blaze; both tents and wagons were being devoured by the red-tongued flames. “Why, Edith,” shouted Frank, who had just reached the carriage, “what on earth are you doing here?” The heat from the burning camp became so intense that Edith’s face was almost scorched, “Edith,” shouted Frank, louder than before. Edith looked at her brother, rubbed her eyes, and then looked again. “Where are the gypsies?” she asked――“Ha! ha! ha!” laughed Frank, “you have been dreaming; you are almost baked by the sun.”

――_Geo. M. Vickers._

The Last Salute.

Yes, the ranks are growing smaller With the coming of each May, And the beards and locks once raven Now are mingled thick with gray; Soon the hands that strew the flowers Will be folded still and cold, And our story of devotion Will forever have been told.

Years and years have passed by, comrades, Though it seems but yesterday Since the Blue-garbed Northern legions Marched to meet the Southern Gray―― But a day since Massachusetts Bade her soldier boys good-bye―― But a day since Alabama Heard her brave sons’ farewell cry.

Those are days we all remember, In our hearts we hold them yet; And the kiss we got at parting, Who can ever that forget? And it may have been a mother, A fond father, or a wife, Or a maid whose love was dearer To the soldier’s heart than life.

Then the silent midnight marches, And the fierce-fought battle’s roar, And the sailor’s lonely watches, Gone, please God, forevermore: Though these ne’er can be forgotten While the dew our graves shall wet, Yet the color of our jackets Let each gallant heart forget;

For the ranks are growing smaller, And though decked in blue or gray, Soon both armies will be sleeping In their shelter-tents of clay. But the loud reverberation Of the last salute shall be Oft re-echoed through the ages As the tocsin of the free!

For we both but did our duty, In the Great Jehovah’s plan, And the world has learned a lesson That all men may read who can; And when gathered for the muster On the last and dreadful day, May that God extend His mercy Sweet, alike to Blue and Gray.

――_Geo. M. Vickers._

Studying For The Contest.

Oh dear! If ever I try to learn another piece I hope to be swallowed by a whale ten times the size of the one that lunched on Jonah. Here I’ve been three weeks trying to get “The Flight of the Hottentots” by heart, and to-morrow night I am to recite at the contest; but I’m bound that that squint-eyed Caddy Screech shall not out-do me this time. Well, here it goes again: [_Reads from the book without gesture._]

The swarthy forms steal one by one Like shadows past the guard; Now soft they creep, now leap, now run, From tyrants base and hard;

But hark! what sound is that which comes Across the sandy plain? The sentry’s cry, the roll of drums! Alas! their flight is vain.

Behold! a thousand torches flash Like meteors into view! While swift the Pagans onward dash The bold dragoons pursue!