GEM FROM PHILIPPINES. 



A Denver lady is in receipt of one of the 

 best souvenirs that has yet come from the 

 Philippines, says the Chattanooga (Tenn.) 

 News. It is a New Year's card sent by a 

 .relative, who is commanding one of the 

 volunteer regiments. 



The card, or rather album, is a home- 

 made affair, evidently altogether his own 

 handiwork. On every other page is a 

 verse of poetry, not the ordinary doggerel 

 of the average youth, but real poetry. On 

 the alternate pages are camera views of 

 scenes in the land of the Orient. The 

 leaves are neatly bound together with a 

 piece of blue ribbon, and on the cover are 

 pen sketches, very artistically done, while 

 the whole is most attractive. 



The verses are as follows: 



Oh ! the big round moon's a-fillin' all the 



camp with silver light, 

 And among the ferns and bushes dodge 



the fireflies big and bright, 

 And the boys rolled in their blankets sleep 



as silent as the dead, 

 And the night wind rustles softly in the 



palm leaves overhead. 



I can near the guard a-walkin' and off 



somewhere, pretty far, 

 There's a native woman singin' and a- 



thumpin' a guitar ; 

 And the music sets me dreamin' and my 



thoughts are bound to roam 

 To the girl that sings supraner in our 



meet'n' house at home. 



Bound me bends the feathered grasses 



with the dew a shinin' wet, 

 And the palm tree 'gainst the skyline 



makes a ragged silhouette. 



And that old guitar a-plunkin' isn't just a 



concert band, 



And she sings in Filipino, so I do not un- 

 derstand. 

 But there's magic in it surely, for it takes 



me far away, 

 Till the smell of tropic flowers turns to 



that of new-mown hay, 

 And I'm lis'nin', carried somehow over 



miles and miles of foam, 

 To the girl that sings supraner in our 



meet'n' house at home. 

 I'm a-sittin' dressed for Sunday in the old, 



familiar pew. 

 And I hear the parson ironin', like he 



never would get through ; 

 I can see the sunshine streamin' through 



the window's colored stain. 

 And I smell cologne and camphor; yes, 



and pep'mint. plain as plain. 

 I can hear Aunt Hannah coughin' ; I can 



hear old Jenkins snore, 

 And the hymn book pages rustle as the 



people thumb 'em o'er; 

 And I hear the sweet notes risin' upward 



towards the heavenly dome, 

 As that girl, she sings supraner in our 



meet'n' house at home. 



But the old guitar stops playin' and the 



singin' it stops too, 

 And my Sunday clothes are turnin' khaki 



brown and army blue ; 

 And the church in old New England is 



once more a forest black, 

 Full of Malay heathens, hopin' they may 



shoot me in the back. 



But I thank the native woman for the com- 

 fort of her song, 



And I hope the mail boat's hustlin' that's 

 a-comin' from Hongkong, 



