Part 14

"I'se do jes de t'ing yer say, Mass Cap'n. Ef yer tells me to go, I'se go. An' I'se jest do ebery word the missus say, an' I look af'r de chillens de bes' I knows, ontel yer comes dar. On'y please come right soon, Mass Cap'n."

And, as the captain left the tent, Tobe laid his head upon his arm and cried as if his heart would break.

Captain Leigh found a brother officer who was expecting to go home on a furlough, and who readily agreed to take charge of the boy in whom his friend was so deeply interested.

But that night came news that made everybody give up the idea of a "furlough," or "going home." The Richmond government, being determined to "make the North feel the war as she had not felt it," had organized the "grand raid."

An order came for Captain Leigh's regiment to march at daylight.

"Tobe," said the captain, "you can go in one of the baggage-wagons. Strap up my blanket and poncho, and take them along; and these boots, take particular care of them, for it's not often I can get a pair of cavalry boots to fit as they do."

"Yer needn't be feared, Mass Cap'n; I'se take care of 'em de bes' I knows."

The main body of the raiders were reported on the line of the South Mountains, making for Gettysburg. Scouting expeditions were sent out from the Northern army in all directions, and a body of troops, including Captain Leigh's regiment, was ordered to proceed by the shortest route to Gettysburg and head the rebels off. One of the baggage-wagons broke down. The driver of another wagon stopped to help his comrade. The troops passed on, and the two wagons were left alone on the mountain. In one of them was Tobe with the captain's boots, over which he kept constant watch. The men worked busily at the wagon and Tobe sat watching them. Suddenly a tramping of horses' feet was heard, and a party of cavalry came round a turn in the road.

"That's good," said one of the men; "there's some of the boys. If they'll wait a few minutes we can go along with 'em."

"'Tain't none of our boys," said the other, after a keen glance; "them's rebs."

At the word, Tobe slid down in the bottom of the wagon under some blankets, and lay silent and motionless with the boots clasped in his arms.

As the soldiers advanced the officer said, apparently in reply to a question, "No, let the men go; we can't do anything with prisoners here. But we'll look through the wagon, and, if the Yanks have anything we want, 'all's fair in war.'"

They reined their horses by the wagon, and, after a few short, sharp questions, proceeded to break open trunks and bags, and appropriate their contents.

The soldiers were about finishing their examination, when one of them said, "What's that under the seat of that wagon?"

"Oh! nothing but a torn blanket," said another. "'Tain't worth taking. We have got all we want."

"There may be something under it, though."

He pushed aside the blanket with his sabre, and there lay Tobe endeavoring, but unsuccessfully, to hide the boots under him.

"Ah!" said the officer, "this is worth while. Here's just what I wanted. Come, boy, hand over those boots, quick."

"'Deed, massa," said Tobe, "I can't gib 'em ter yer. Dey 'longs ter Mass Cap'n, an' he tole me take keer ob 'em mos' partic'lar."

"Can't help that. I've got to have them, so pass them along."

"Please, Massa," began Tobe; but the rebel cut him short.

"Will you give me those boots? If you don't do it, and in double-quick time, too, I'll put a ball through your black skin. I won't ask you again. Now, will you give them up?" and he pulled out his pistol.

"'Deed, massa, I can't, case Massa Cap'n"--

There was a sharp click, a flash, a long, sobbing moan, and Tobe lay motionless, the boots still clasped in his arms, and great drops of blood slowly gathering upon them.

"Enemy in sight," shouted a picket riding up.

The officer hastily gave an order, and the rebels dashed off at a furious speed a few moments before a party of Union cavalry, with Captain Leigh at their head, appeared, riding from the opposite direction.

A few words sufficed for explanation. Captain Leigh laid his hand on Tobe's shoulder, and spoke his name. At the sound of the voice he loved so well, his eyes opened, and he said faintly, "Mass Cap'n, I done de bes' I knowed. I keep de boots.'"

"O Tobe!" groaned the captain, "I wish you had given them up. I would have lost everything rather than have had this."

"Mass Cap'n."

"Yes, Tobe, what is it?"

"De little chillens, Mass Cap'n; I meaned ter wait on 'em right smart. Tell 'em"--His voice grew fainter, and his eyes closed.

"Yes, my boy: what shall I tell them?"

"Tell 'em I didn't lose de boots; I kep 'em de bes'--I knowed."

There was a faint sigh, a flutter of the eyelids, and the little life that had been so truly "de bes' he knowed" (ah! if we could all say that!) was ended.

Very reverently Captain Leigh lifted the boots, all wet and stained with blood. "I will never wear those boots again," he said; "but I will never part with them. They shall be Tobe's monument."

In the hall of Captain Leigh's house is a deep niche, and in it, on a marble slab covered with a glass case, stands a pair of cavalry boots with dark stains upon them, and on the edge of the slab, in golden letters, is the inscription:

"In memory of Tobe, Faithful unto death."

THE CROWDED STREET.

BY WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

Let me move slowly through the street, Filled with an ever-shifting train, Amid the sound of steps that beat The murmuring walks like autumn rain.

How fast the flitting figures come! The mild, the fierce, the stony face-- Some bright with thoughtless smiles, and some Where secret tears have left their trace.

They pass to toil, to strife, to rest-- To halls in which the feast is spread-- To chambers where the funeral guest In silence sits beside the dead.

And some to happy homes repair, Where children pressing cheek to cheek, With mute caresses shall declare The tenderness they cannot speak.

And some, who walk in calmness here, Shall shudder as they reach the door Where one who made their dwelling dear, Its flower, its light, is seen no more.

Youth, with pale cheek and slender frame, And dreams of greatness in thine eye! Go'st thou to build an early name, Or early in the task to die?

Keen son of trade, with eager brow! Who is now fluttering in thy snare? Thy golden fortunes, tower they now, Or melt the glittering spires in air?

Who of this crowd to-night shall tread The dance till daylight gleam again? Who sorrow o'er the untimely dead? Who writhe in throes of mortal pain?

Some, famine-struck, shall think how long The cold, dark hours, how slow the light; And some, who flaunt amid the throng, Shall hide in dens of shame to-night.

Each where his tasks or pleasures call, They pass, and heed each other not. There is who heeds, who holds them all In His large love and boundless thought.

These struggling tides of life, that seem In wayward, aimless course to tend, Are eddies of the mighty stream That rolls to its appointed end.

BESSIE KENDRICK'S JOURNEY.

BY MRS. ANNIE A. PRESTON.

"Cars stop twenty minutes!" called out Conductor Richardson at Allen's Junction. Then, as the train came to a dead halt, he jumped down upon the depot platform, ran along to the front of the long line of passenger cars, to where the engine was standing, and, swinging himself up into the cab, said to the engineer:

"Frank; I want you to come back to the first passenger coach, and see a little girl that I don't know hardly what to make of."

Frank nodded, and, without speaking, deliberately wiped his oily hands in a bunch of waste, took a look at his grim, dusty face in a narrow little mirror that hung beside the steam gauge, pulled off his short frock, put on a coat, changed his little black, greasy cap for a soft felt, taking these "dress-up" articles from the tender-box, where an engineer has something stowed away for all emergencies, and went back to the cars as requested.

He entered the car and made his way to the seat where the conductor sat talking to a bright-looking little girl, about nine years old, oddly dressed in a woman's shawl and bonnet.

Several of the passengers were grouped around the seat, evidently much interested in the child, who wore a sad, prematurely old countenance, but seemed to be neither timid nor confused.

"Here is the engineer," said the conductor, kindly, as Frank approached.

She held up her hand to him, with a winsome smile breaking over her pinched little face, and said:

"My papa was an engineer before he became sick and went to live on a farm in Montana. He is dead, and my mamma is dead. She died first, before Willie and Susie. My papa used to tell me that after he should be dead there would be no one to take care of me, and then I must get on the cars and go to his old home in Vermont. And he said, 'cause I hadn't any ticket, I must ask for the engineer and tell him I am James Kendrick's little girl, and that he used to run on the M. & S. road."

The pleading blue eyes were now suffused with tears; but she did not cry after the manner of childhood in general.

Engineer Frank stooped down and kissed her very tenderly; and then, as he brushed the tears from his own eyes, said:

"Well, my dear, so you are little Bessie Kendrick. I rather think a merciful Providence guided you on board this train."

Then, turning around to the group of passengers, he went on:

"I knew Jim Kendrick well. He was a man out of ten thousand. When I first came to Indiana, before I got acclimated, I was sick a great part of the time, so that I could not work, and I got homesick and discouraged. Could not keep my board bill paid up, to say nothing of my doctor's bill, and I didn't much care whether I lived or died.

"One day, when the pay car came along and the men were getting their monthly pay, and there wasn't a cent coming to me, for I hadn't worked an hour for the last month, I felt so 'blue' that I sat down on a pile of railroad ties and leaned my elbows on my knees, with my head in my hands, and cried like a boy, out of sheer homesickness and discouragement.

"Pretty soon one came along and said, in a voice that seemed like sweet music in my ears, for I hadn't found much real sympathy, although the boys were all good to me in their way: 'You've been having a rough time of it, and you must let me help you out.'

"I looked up, and there stood Jim Kendrick, with his month's pay in his hand. He took out from the roll of bills a twenty-dollar note and held it out to me.

"I knew he had a sickly wife and two or three children, and that he had a hard time of it himself to pull through from month to month, so I said, half-ashamed of the tears that were still streaming down my face, 'Indeed, I cannot take the money; you must need it yourself.'

"'Indeed, you will take it, man,' said Jim. 'You will be all right in a few days, and then you can pay it back. Now come home with me to supper and see the babies. It will do you good.'

"I took the note and accepted the invitation, and after that went to his house frequently, until he moved away, and I gradually lost sight of him.

"I had returned the loan, but it was impossible to repay the good that little act of kindness did me, and I guess Jim Kendrick's little girl here won't want for anything if I can prevent it."

Then turning to the child, whose bright eyes were wide open now, the engineer said to her:

"I'll take you home with me when we get up to Wayne. My wife will fix you up, and we'll find out whether these Vermont folks want you or not. If they do, Mary or I shall go with you. But, if they don't care much about having you, you shall stay with us and be our girl, for we have none of our own. You look very much like your father, God bless him."

Just then the eastern train whistled, Engineer Frank vanished out of the car door and went forward to the engine, wiping the tears with his coat sleeve, while the conductor and passengers could not suppress the tears this little episode evoked during the twenty minutes' stop at Allen's Junction.

THERE IS A TONGUE IN EVERY LEAF.

There is a tongue in every leaf, A voice in every rill-- A voice that speaketh everywhere, In flood, and fire, through earth and air! A tongue that's never still!

'Tis the Great Spirit, wide diffused Through everything we see, That with our spirits communeth Of things mysterious--life and death, Time and eternity!

I see Him in the blazing sun, And in the thunder-cloud; I hear Him in the mighty roar That rusheth through the forest hoar When winds are raging loud.

I feel Him in the silent dews, By grateful earth betray'd; I feel Him in the gentle showers, The soft south wind, the breath of flowers, The sunshine and the shade.

I see Him, hear Him, everywhere, In all things--darkness, light, Silence and sound; but, most of all, When slumber's dusty curtains fall, I' the silent hour of night.

LET US GIVE THANKS.

BY ELLEN ISABELLA TUPPER.

For all that God in mercy sends: For health and children, home and friends, For comfort in the time of need, For every kindly word and deed, For happy thoughts and holy talk, For guidance in our daily walk-- For everything give thanks!

For beauty in this world of ours, For verdant grass and lovely flowers, For song of birds, for hum of bees, For the refreshing summer breeze, For hill and plain, for streams and wood, For the great ocean's mighty flood-- In everything give thanks!

For the sweet sleep which comes with night, For the returning morning's light, For the bright sun that shines on high, For the stars glittering in the sky; For these and everything we see, O Lord! our hearts we lift to Thee For everything give thanks!

LITTLE FEET.

Up from all the city's by-ways, From the breathless, sickening heat, To the wide-swung gate of heaven, Eager throng the little feet.

Not a challenge has the warder For these souls so sinless white; Round each brow the Saviour's blessing Circles like a crown of light.

See, the Lord Himself stands waiting, Wide His loving arms are spread; On his heart of hearts is pillowed Every weary baby's head.

But below, with tear-wet faces, And with hearts all empty grown, Stand the mourning men and women, Vainly calling back their own.

Upward floats the voice of mourning-- "Jesus, Master, dost thou care?" Aye, He feels each drop of anguish-- "He doth all our sorrows bear."

Wipe thine eyes, O heavy laden; Look beyond the clouds and see, With your dear one on His bosom, Jesus stands and calls to thee.

Waits with yearning, all unfathomed-- Love you cannot understand, Lures you upward with the beckoning Of your buried baby's hand.

A RAINY DAY.

Patter, patter, patter, On the window-pane; Drip, drip, drip, Comes the heavy rain.

Now the little birdies Fly away to bed, And each tender blossom Droops its pretty head.

But the little rootlets, In the earth below, Open wide their tiny mouths Where the rain-drops flow;

And the thirsty grasses Soon grow fresh and green, With the pretty daisies Springing up between.

FASHIONABLE.

A fashionable woman In a fashionable pew; A fashionable bonnet Of a fashionable hue; A fashionable mantle And a fashionable gown; A fashionable Christian In a fashionable town; A fashionable prayer-book. And a fashionable choir; A fashionable chapel With a fashionable spire; A fashionable preacher With a fashionable speech; A fashionable sermon With a fashionable reach; A fashionable welcome At the fashionable door; A fashionable penny For the fashionable poor; A fashionable heaven And a fashionable hell; A fashionable Bible For this fashionable belle; A fashionable kneeling And a fashionable nod; A fashionable everything, But no fashionable God.

RESURGAM.

BY EBEN E. REXFORD.

"There is no God," he said, and turned away From those who sought to lead him to the light; "Here is a violet, growing for a day, When winter comes, and all the world is white, It will be dead. And I am like the flower, To-day, here am I, and to-morrow, dust. Is life worth living for its little hour Of empty pleasure, if decay we must?"

The autumn came, and under fallen leaves The little violet was hid away. "Dead! dead!" cried he. "Alas, all nature grieves For what she loves is destined to decay. Soon like the violet, in soft, damp earth I shall be hidden, and above my head A stone will tell the record of my birth And of my nothingness when I am dead."

Spring came, and from the mold the little flower He had thought dead, sprung up to sweetest bloom. He saw it, and his heart was touched that hour, And grasped the earth-old mystery of the tomb. "God of the flower," he said, with reverent voice, "The violet lives again, and why not I? At last my blind eyes see, and I rejoice. The soul within me was not born to die!"

THE FAULT OF THE AGE.

BY ELLA WHEELER WILCOX.

The fault of the age is a mad endeavor To leap to heights that were made to climb; By a burst of strength or a thought that is clever We plan to outwit and forestall Time.

We scorn to wait for the thing worth having; We want high noon at the day's dim dawn, We find no pleasure in toiling and saving As our forefathers did in the good times gone.

We force our roses before their season To bloom and blossom that we may wear; And then we wonder and ask the reason Why perfect buds are so few and rare.

We crave the gain, but despise the getting; We want wealth, not as reward, but dower; And the strength that is wasted in useless fretting Would fell a forest or build a tower.

To covet the prize, yet to shrink from the winning; To thirst for glory, yet fear the fight-- Why, what can it lead to at last but sinning, To mental languor and moral blight?

Better the old slow way of striving And counting small gains when the year is done, Than to use our forces all in contriving And to grasp for pleasures we have not won.

THE BOOK CANVASSER.

BY MAX ADELER.

He came into my office with a portfolio under his arm. Placing it upon the table, removing a ruined hat, and wiping his nose upon a ragged handkerchief that had been so long out of the wash that it was positively gloomy, he said: "Mr. ----, I'm canvassing for the National Portrait Gallery; splendid work; comes in numbers, fifty cents apiece; contains pictures of all the great American heroes from the earliest times down to the present day. Everybody subscribing for it, and I want to see if I can't take your name.

"Now, just cast your eyes over that," he said, opening his book and pointing to an engraving, "That's--lemme see--yes, that's Columbus, perhaps you've heard sumfin' about him? The publisher was telling me to-day before I started out that he discovered--No; was it Columbus that dis--Oh! yes. Columbus, he discovered America--was the first man here. He came over in a ship, the publisher said, and it took fire, and he stayed on deck because his father told him to, if I remember right, and when the old thing busted to pieces he was killed. Handsome picture, ain't it? Taken from a photograph, all of 'em are; done especially for this work. His clothes are kinder odd but they say that's the way they dressed in them days. Look at this one. Now isn't that splendid? William Penn, one of the early settlers. I was reading t'other day about him. When he first arrived he got a lot of Indians up a tree, and when they shook some apples down, he set one on top of his son's head, and shot an arrow plump through it and never fazed him. They say it struck them Indians cold; he was such a terrific shooter. Fine countenance, hasn't he? Face shaved clean; he didn't wear a mustache, I believe, but he seems to have let himself out on hair. Now, my view is, that every man ought to have a picture of that Patriarch so's to see how the fust settlers looked and what kind of weskets they yoused to wear. See his legs; too! Trousers a little short maybe, as if he was going to wade in a creek; but he's all there. Got some kind of a paper in his hand, I see. Subscription list, I reckon. Now, how does that strike you? There's something nice. That I think, is--is--that's a--a--yes, to be sure, Washington--you recollect him, of course? Some people call him Father of his Country, George--Washington. He had no middle name, I believe. He lived about two hundred years ago and he was a fighter. I heard the publisher telling a man about him crossing the Delaware River up yer at Trenton, and seems to me, if I recollect right, I've read about it myself. He was courting some girl on the Jersey side, and he used to swim over at nights to see her when the old man was asleep. The girl's family were down on him, I reckon. He looks like a man to do that, don't he? He's got it in his eye. If it'd been me I'd gone over on a bridge, but he probably wanted to show off afore her; some men are so reckless, you know. Now, if you'll conclude to take this I'll get the publisher to write out some more stories about him, and bring 'em round to you, so's you can study up on him. I know he did ever so many other things, but I've forgot 'em; my memory's so awful poor.