The Home Circle.

Southern Cross, Volume 7, Issue 35, 25 November 1899, Page 11

The Home Circle.

marchingstill. She is old and bent and wrinkled. In her rocker in the sun, And the thick, gray woollen stocking That she knits is never done. She will ask the news of battle, If you pass her when you will, Tor the troops to her are marching, Marching still. Seven tall sons about her growing Cheered the widowed mother’s soul; One by one they kissed and left her When the drums began to roll; They are buried in the trenches, They are bleaching on the hill; But to her the boys are marching, Marching still. She was knitting in the corner When the fatal news was read, How the last and youngest perished— And the letter, ending, said ; “ I am writing on my knapsack By the road, with borrowed quill, Bor the Union Army’s marching, Marching still.” Beason sank and died within her Like a flame for want of air , So she knits the woollen stockings Bor the soldier lads to wear, Waiting till the war is ended For her sons to cross the sill ; For she thinks they all are marching Marching still! Minna Irving, in Exchange,