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To send him from our bedside prayer.**
Only one more, our oldest lad,
SALLIE A. BROCK.
BOVE a checkered table they bent
A man in his prime and a maiden fair,
Rested no shadowy tinge of care.
Her lips wore the curves of cheerful thought;
Grace and beauty their spell had fraught.
Above the checkered table they bent,
Watching the pieces, red and white, As each moved on in appointed course
Through the mimic battle's steady fightThe queen, in her stately, regal power;
The king, to her person friendly shield; The mitred bishop, with his support,
And the massive castle across the field;
in his slow and cautious-pace, A step at a time; and the mounted knight, Vaulting, as gallant horseman of old,
To the right and left, and left and right. But a single word the silence broke,
As they cleared aside the ruin and wreck Of the battle's havoc; and that word
Was the little monosyllable "Check!"
Pawns, and bishops, and castles, and knights
Trembled together in sad dismay,
To a deeper, wilder, sweeter play.
On the board was fastened for turn of fate,
And a sparkling smile: "If you please, sir, mate!"
And gently her fluttering triumph-hand,
As white as a flake of purest pearl, She laid on the crown of her victor-king,
While the other toyed with a wanton curl.
And on it imprinted a trembling kiss;
For losing the game could I win but this!"
What the maiden answered 'twere treason to tell,
As her blushes deepened to crimson glow, Mounting like lightning flashes quick
Till they burned on cheeks, and ears and brow. And in three months' time the church-bells rang,
And the parson finished the game begun, When both wore the conqueror's triumph-smile, And both were happy, for both had won.
- Appleton's Journal
The tiny cell is forlorn,