Then the evening fell upon her, clear of sound of shout or gun, And she gazed with wistful waiting down the dusty Concord road. Little Golden Hair had listened, not a single week before, While the heavy sand was falling on her mother's coffin-lid; And she loved her father better for the loss that then she bore, And thought of him and mourned for him, whatever else she did. So she wondered all the day What could make her father stay, And she cried a little, too, As he'd told her not to do; And the sun sunk slowly downward and went grandly out of sight, And she had the kiss all ready on his lips to be bestowed; But the shadows made one shadow, and the twilight grew to night, And she looked, and looked, and listened, down the dusty Concord road. Then the night grew light and lighter, and the moon and round, rose full In the little sad face peering, looking piteously and mild; Still upon the walks of gravel there was heard no welcome sound, And no father came there, eager for the kisses of his child. Long and sadly did she wait, Lest he might have come to harm. With no bonnet but her tresses, no companion but her fears, And no guide except the moonbeams that the pathway dimly showed, With a little sob of sorrow, quick she threw away her tears, And alone she bravely started down the dusty Concord road; And for many a mile she struggled, full of weariness and pain, Calling loudly for her father, that her voice he might not miss; Till at last among a number of the wounded and the slain, Was the white face of the soldier waiting for his daughter's kiss. And Softly to his lips she crept, Not to wake him as he slept; Then with her young heart at rest, Laid her head upon his breast. upon the dead face smiling, with the living one near by, All the night a golden streamlet of the moonbeams gently flowed; One to live, a lonely orphan, one beneath the sod to lie They found them in the morning on the dusty Concord road. No Sects in Heaven. ALKING of sects till late one eve, Of the various doctrines the saints believe, That night I stood, in a troubled dream, By the side of a darkly flowing stream. And a "Churchman" down to the river came; But the aged father did not mind, "I'm bound for heaven; and when I'm there, Then he fixed his eyes on the shining track, I saw him again on the other side, Then down to the river a Quaker strayed; His dress of a sober hue was made: "My coat and hat must all be gray I cannot go any other way." Then he buttoned his coat straight up to his chin, And staidly, solemnly waded in, And his broad-brimmed hat he pulled down tight, Over his forehead so cold and white. But a strong wind carried away his hat, As he entered heaven his suit of gray Next came Dr. Watts, with a bundle of psalms Tied nicely up in his aged arms, And hymns as many, a very wise thing, That the people in heaven "all 'round" might sing. But I thought that he heaved an anxious sigh, And after him, with his MSS., Came Wesley, the pattern of godliness; But he cried, "Dear me! what shall I do? The water has soaked them through and through." And there on the river far and wide, Away they went down the swollen tide; And the saint, astonished, passed through alone, Without his manuscripts, up to the throne. Then, gravely walking, two saints by name But as they stopped at the river's brink, "Sprinkled or plunged? may I ask you, friend, "And I really think it will hardly do, |