Jim come home jes’ long enough
    To take the whim
  ’At he’d like to go back in the calvery—­
    And the old man jes’ wrapped up in him! 
  Jim ’lowed ’at he’d had sich luck afore,
  Guessed he’d tackle her three years more. 
  And the old man give him a colt he’d raised,
  And follered him over to Camp Ben Wade,
  And laid around fer a week er so,
  Watchin’ Jim on dress-parade;
  ’Tel finally he rid away,
  And last he heerd was the old man say,—­
    “Well, good-bye, Jim: 
    Take keer of yourse’f”

  Tuk the papers, the old man did,
    A-watchin’ fer Jim,
  Fully believin’ he’d make his mark
    Some way—­jes’ wrapped up in him! 
  And many a time the word ’ud come
  ’At stirred him up like the tap of a drum: 
  At Petersburg fer instunce, where
  Jim rid right into their cannons there,
  And tuk ’em, and p’inted ’em t’ other way,
  And socked it home to the boys in gray,
  As they skooted fer timber, and on and on—­
  Jim a lieutenant,—­and one arm gone,—­
  And the old man’s words in his mind all day,—­
    “Well, good-bye, Jim: 
    Take keer of yourse’f!”

  Think of a private, now, perhaps,
    We’ll say like Jim,
  ’At’s clumb clean up to the shoulder-straps—­
    And the old man jes’ wrapped up in him! 
  Think of him—­with the war plum’ through,
  And the glorious old Red-White-and-Blue
  A-laughin’ the news down over Jim,
  And the old man, bendin’ over him—­
  The surgeon turnin’ away with tears
  ’At hadn’t leaked fer years and years,
  As the hand of the dyin’ boy clung to
  His Father’s, the old voice in his ears,—­
    “Well, good-bye, Jim: 
    Take keer of yourse’f!”

JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY.

* * * * *

STONEWALL JACKSON’S WAY

  Come, stack arms, men; pile on the rails;
    Stir up the camp-fire bright! 
  No growling if the canteen fails: 
    We’ll make a roaring night. 
  Here Shenandoah brawls along,
  There burly Blue Ridge echoes strong,
  To swell the Brigade’s rousing song,
    Of Stonewall Jackson’s Way.

  We see him now—­the queer slouched hat,
    Cocked o’er his eye askew;
  The shrewd, dry smile; the speech so pat,
    So calm, so blunt, so true. 
  The “Blue-light Elder” knows ’em well: 
  Says he, “That’s Banks; he’s fond of shell.—­
  Lord save his soul! we’ll give him—­;” Well,
    That’s Stonewall Jackson’s Way.

  Silence!  Ground arms!  Kneel all!  Caps off! 
    Old Massa’s going to pray. 
  Strangle the fool that dares to scoff: 
    Attention!—­it’s his way. 
  Appealing from his native sod,
  In forma pauperis to God. 
  “Lay bare Thine arm!  Stretch forth Thy rod: 
    Amen!”—­That’s Stonewall’s Way.