ty strong, amused his Self and famaly by firin
at us frum the windose.
‘ The Sannitary Fair, Sarjint Miller,’ sade
Betsey, ‘is a grate, big, tremendous, ever-so
largc show they’re gettin up in Philadelpliy,
for the benny fit of the poor wounded soljcrs!
‘ Bully for it cride I.
‘And i’m a workin for it’
‘ Bully for you wus my responce.
‘Furry body's a lielpin and given’ she con
tinued.
‘Bully fur Everybody !’ I annsered. ‘Good
all round! Say yor wil Betsey and draw yor
rations. I know that Sannitary and i’m
on it if i’m on annything on the face of the
expansiv yertli. What cum to me of old wen
i was shaken like a yeller Lecf in a hi Wind,
with Fever nagy in the swomps of the Chicken
Hominy and bade me arise and put me strate ?
the Sannitary ! What saved me as i was
crawlin about after Ann tyetam, half smashed
and all starvin, and cum the Good Samarrytun
over me, and heeled my wounds? the San
sitary ! What tended to me at getysburg
and nursed me well the Lord bless ’em for
ever ! Betsey,’ I coutinward, as my eye rested
on her rapped gaze, and passed to a waggin
outside, labeld Conthiuitions for tiif, Sani
tary Fair, in witch she had aperently cum as
boss ‘ first cum first servd letter A gets
the top of the coffy liter is my stoar
thore is yor cart plunge them fary fingers
into wotever yo like best it’s free foragin
here and fur whatever is too hot or too heavy
cawl upon this remaneing arm 1 Sale in 1’
I berried myself in the newspaper that I
mite not be a Check on the proseedings like
as the Curnel sed wen he saw his Ordaly
steelin a good hors. ....and pulling the sheet
over my hed Was soon lost in the Abiss of
a Editorial cxplanein so fooly the movemence
of our Army as to render it pretty plane wy
we never ketch enny of the Enemys spize
They dont need em.
Wen i cum to, Betsey had departed, leaving
behind her a hole in my Stock abowt large
enough to swaller up twist the remainder
like as the bird sed wen she cum home and
fownd that sumboddy had used her nest as a
baskit to kerry off the egs in But no vane
regrets asaled my Sole a feelin of Pride at
doin a Big thing swep over me, not unmickst
with Vannity wen I found on the Desk a
noat extreamly well rit by Betsey Morris.
“ Dear Sergeant. You are a noble fellow,
there is not another Gentleman in town or out
of it, who would do as you have done. I
expect by using your name as example to
honor our whole Country, and save hundreds
of lives. Yours truly.
Elizabeth B. Morris.”
B. stands for Blummenbeet her Mother’s
famaly name and no more at precent from
Your friend Isaiah Miller.
Late Sergt. Co. C. 941»< Reyt. P. V.
ue Daily Faeb.
THE VINE.
[ Written for *' Our Daily Fare."]
I>Y THOMAS liUt'HANAN BEAD
I sing tin 1 vino—tho western vine.
Tile newly found, imt not unsung—
Whoso magic to the minstrel's tongue,
Mude music flow through every line.
Within its mellow amber deeps,
A mild and soothing spirit dwells,
As innocent as that which sleeps
In Poesy's Castalian wells:
Then Ideas tile wine, the mellow wine,
That flows from tiie Catawba Vine.
From east to west, this vine shall spread,
Kmbowerihfr all our vales and hills,
And half of all our daily ills,
Shall vanish where its is shed;
The fields are joyous where it grows,—
It makes the rugged hill-sides glad,—
And where with vines the porch is glad,
There dwells the spirit of repose:
Then bless the wine—the mellow wino
That Hows from the Catawba Vine.
The fiends that iurk in burning draughts,
Shall no more poison cups of ours; —
But when with ns young Bacchus laughs,
O’ershadowed by our vineyard bowers,
The God shall think his cup is tilled
"With honey-dew, at morn distilled,
By Flora from her purest flowers:
Then bless the wine—the mellow wine,
That flows from the Catawba Vine.
And yet, beneath these glorious skies,
A nobler vine o'erarchos all, —
In its support, or in its fall,
A mighty nation lives or die.-!
Its boughs are weighed with Freedom's fruit,
Beyond the hungry fox's reach; —
With sturdy shoulders, each to each.
Come, let us guard it branch and root!
And bless the wine, the sacred wine
That flows from our great Union Vine !
Cincinnati, 1804.
FAIR—AND SOFTLY!
A correspondent of the Small Captious kind,
has sent us a note commending us to place the
word Vanity before that of Fair —and refer
ring us, for further particulars, to a work by
the late Mr. Bunyan.
As our S. C., or Small Cap correspondent,
writes badly, forming his «’s like «’s, we found
some difficulty in extracting from the library
the book in question. The first pull gave us:
Banyan. Some account of the Banyan Tree
on the River Nerbudda, London: 1810.
This would’nt do. We tried again, and
brought up a worldly-minded and profane
play, entitled the Boiled Onion—labelled on
the cover, in writing, as follows:
A Mellon) Drama,
11. Onion.
This was very much like young widowhood
with a fresh lover—which has been defined as
in the soft, and past the tearful stage. We let
down the line again. Net result—
Bunions , Corns , and their Cure. By a Chiro
pedist.
In silent wrath we tried once more, and at
tained to The Pilgrim’s Progress. Of this
excellent work, which no gentleman’s library
should be without, and whose author's name,
we doubt not, will yet become eminent, we
have nothing to say. But we must declare
that we failed to detect the slightest resem
blance between Vanity Fair, as described by
our late young literary friend Bunyan, and
the Great Central. The only hook on which
we could hang the first clue to an identity was
in the fact that in Mr. Bunyan’s Fair they are
said to have kicked up “a Gorman Row,”
among others—while it cannot he denied that
in ours there is a Dutch Kitchen.
If this was our correspondent’s joke, all we
can say is that it is a very poor one. If it
was meant for “von grand moral lesson,” as
the Frenchman said when lie whipped the
monkey, it was still worse. Solomon, who, in
spite of Boston, still retains a certain reputa
tion for wisdom, is said to have declared that
all is Vanity; and, such being the case, we
do not well see how we are to get out of it.
Vain or not vain, the man who does his best,
in this life, for suffering humanity, probably
passes liis time about as well as the Small
Caps who go about sneering at enterprise
which they have not the nerve or generosity
to imitate. As it is we have far too many
of them everywhere.
“Ask us some more of them hard ques’-
huns?”
OUE PRIVATE POST OFFICE.
[lot the first.]
Taule, Central Fair, 1
June 8, 1804. /
Dear Tom : What made you look like such
a guy yesterday ? Yours truly,
[vlhsirer.]
Smoking Divan, Ditto, Ditto.
My Dear Amelia: Since you so kindly in
quire the cause of my sprained ancle, and my
black eye, my torn coat and my bad cough—
ah-hern ■' I would say that my sprained ancle
was occasioned by standing on tip-toe and try
ing to look over a three-story bonnet, at my
Amelia in the distance; my bad cough by in
haling the dust raised by the ladies’ “ trains ”
on the pave; my black eye by a scratch from
an oyster-shell worn in a lady’s hat, and my
torn coat by a bad fall caused by catching my
foot in a small hoop-skirt with 41G springs.
So soon as I am able to be out, I intend to en
list in the 999th Mass. As for matrimony,
that is quite out of the question during the
continuance of the present fashions.
Your despairing friend,
Thomas Wideawake.
[Endorsed: “ Glad he’s going—the brute!
Amelia.
“Amelia.”]