APPENDIX.



   FATHER WUYTS AND JOHN MORGAN.
                 Founded on Fact.
Of old war stories there are not few,
But we shall try to offer something new;
Back to the sixties let us go again,
For some event that was soul-stirring then.
The scene at Holy Cross now shall be laid,
Where quiet dramas sometimes have been played;
A local interest thus may catch your ear,
If other merit none my tale shall wear.
Well, it was sixties, as I said before,
A time when our great Nation's heart was sore.
At Holy Cross had been a mission preached,
As if no war news that calm nook had reached.
There Wuyts and Smarius bravely held the fort
And battled foes of quite a different sort
From gallant blue and gray clad soldier boys,
Who filled the outside world with martial noise.
They fought for souls, and the good country folk
Of that sequestered parish scarcely spoke
Of war at all; while on the mission ran
Its holy way through full a week's round span.
One night, when all was sweetly calm and still,
A sound rose faintly o'er the nearest hill-
A sound of horsemen with a wearied tread,
At such a time awakening general dread.
The parsonage soon filled with a fierce band,
A motley crowd, with sword and gun in hand,
While he called leader-Morgan was his name-
Came boldly forth a lodging place to claim.
The priest and captain matched undaunted eyes,
In gaze of each upleaped a faint surprise,
Then, with a chuckling laugh that always won,
Good Father Wuyts said softly, "Hello, John!"
John Morgan for a moment could not speak,
The cleric's coolness made the raider weak,
Tho' weak indeed was he from lack of rest,
Which wakened pity in the churchman's breast.
"I am John Morgan,, howsoe'er you know,
And, with my men, am fleeing from the foe.
In hot pursuit were they till darkness fell,
And mind, Sir Priest, if you but dare to tell
We're lodging here, I'll-" ' Tut, tut, man, threats to me
Are shust like water-thrown away, you see,
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