CHAPTER XX. THE SURRENDER.

ICHMOND has {234}surrendered! The army of Lee has retreated! From every little village, and in every vast city the glad cry rang forth on that bright April morning, early in 1865, till the echoes bore the joyful tidings to every camp and bivouac in the Union army, “Shout the glad tidings!” The words rang out, and the streets of the cities were filled with excited crowds of men and women, who were frantic with joy. Even the little children seemed to have become inspired with the enthusiasm, and laughed and danced, they knew not why.

Flags were run up in haste, men and boys ran wildly around, singing and cheering, strangers clasped each others' hands gladly, while women wept with joy.

The “good news,” however, had been received at first by the army to which Ralph belonged, with incredulity, and such expressions as “We've heard that before!”

“My feet are pretty sore tramping!”

“I'm going right on to Richmond now!” and it chagrined the officer in charge so deeply to think that they could not accept it as a truth, that he had the men drawn up in line, some 6,000 strong, in the pine woods through which they were marching, and appointed officers to ride up and down the line and announce it officially. And then what a roar and thundering of cheers aroused the echoes in those old trees! No more weariness then, no more stumbling and grumbling, but they made all haste to the town to which they were nearest, and set up a playful bombardment with blank charges, to celebrate the event, much to the rejoicing of the citizens there, who were as glad as they.

To the worn-out, sunburned soldiers it was good news, and as they {235}gathered in groups loud rejoicing and eager discussion was heard among them. To Ralph it brought the grateful thought that the dawn of peace was near, and the Union would once again be restored, and his heart was full of a quiet thankfulness that words could not express.

But alas, for the jubilant people--for those who were rejoicing, and to whom a feeling of relief had come, because there was no more war. Those who had so bitterly opposed each other on fields of battle, whose differences had received a “baptism of blood,” met daily, more like brothers than late enemies. True, bitterness and disappointment rankled in some hearts, but it is also true that all over our broad land, both North and South, men rejoiced together that they could return to the homes they had been so long exiles from, and once more take up the thread of social and business life, with a surety that it would be no more severed But even while the North was trembling with excess of happiness, a terrible shadow darkened the brilliancy of the victory--the four years of struggle and bloodshed were obliterated, so it seemed, by a wave of sorrow that swept over the heart of the North, paralyzing its throb of ecstasy. Abraham Lincoln, the friend of all mankind, whose life was free from petty vindictiveness, and whose whole aim was the restoration of the republic on a fair and just basis, a grand and unselfish man, was struck down by the hand of an assassin--J. Wilkes Booth. The President was shot while sitting with his wife and other friends, in a box at Ford's Theater, Washington, April 14, 1865, and he died the next morning. The entire nation was dumb with grief and consternation. On the heels of sweet and gentle peace came the dread question--What will be the outcome? A nation had been plunged into mourning by the mad act of a fanatic.

{236}

At once the War Department issued a poster, offering a large reward for the capture of the murderer, and on April 26 he was tracked to an old barn on Garrett's farm, twenty miles from Fredericksburg, with a shattered leg. He refused to surrender, {237}and the building was set on fire, and he was shot in attempting to escape, and captured. He had received a mortal wound, from which he died.

The surrender of General Lee was followed by that of all the principal armies of the Confederacy; the last to throw down their arms being the command of General Kirby Smith, on the 26th of May. Thus very little was left for the Government to do, save to reconstruct the shattered portions of our land, to repress wandering bands of outlaws, and to maintain order.

The close of the war was welcomed by North and South alike--it was as if a hideous nightmare had been banished, and now the waking dreams of desolated homes, reunited, could be realized.

To the boys in blue who had fought valiantly and untiringly, the news that the opposing armies had surrendered was a relief, although they sorrowfully turned their faces homeward, at the remembrance of those who came not with them; still a deep joy filled their souls as they thought of those who were waiting to receive them.

The same scenes were transpiring at the South, where patient wives, mothers, sisters and daughters were waiting and watching for those who had been so strangely preserved to them, and happy voices and beaming smiles made their home-coming glad.

The two armies--the Army of the Potomac and Sherman's Army--were sent to Washington late in May for review, before being mustered out of service. The scene was inspiring. The {238} streets were packed with a surging mass of people, proud to shout and cheer for the brown-faced men who fought for the upholding of their beloved government.

{239}

Banners, garlands of flowers, tumultuous cheering, marked the marching divisions of the Army of the Potomac, as they wheeled into line, and arriving at {240}the grand stand at the White House, where President Johnson and his cabinet reviewed them, the officers gave a royal salute with their swords, while the commanders of the divisions sprang from their horses, and went upon the stand as their commands filed by.

The following day, May 24, Sherman's noble army of bronzed and weather-beaten men were reviewed in the same manner, and as the marching columns kept step to the music of their bands, the enthusiasm was intense, and broke into cheer after cheer, while the houses, sidewalks, and every spot where human beings could find a foothold, was one mass of waving flags, handkerchiefs and streamers.

As Ralph, in far-away Montgomery, where the regiment was to remain but a day or so, read the account of the monster ovation, his bosom swelled with pride, and life seemed to, take on a rosier color. Every cheer that was uttered, every look of welcome to those who passed through the streets of Washington that day, he considered a tribute to every soldier in the land; for had they not all done their duty and stood by their colors?

He claimed a share in that rejoicing, even though could not be there, and he vaguely wondered if those who had died to save this glorious Union did not also rejoice at the dawn of peace, and the new birth of a nation, whose proudest boast should ever be that “All men are born free and equal.”

His soul went out in peace and love to all--to those who had fallen in battle or died of wounds on either side; to the dear comrades whom he remembered long; to that grana martyr--the type of freedom, justice and love for all--Abraham Lincoln!

“Dreaming, are you?” a cheery voice broke in upon his musings.

“Yes, Steve, I am dreaming--dreaming of the time when I can go to my mother, and tell her how grateful I am that I have been saved through all the sad scenes the past four years have shown me.”

{241}

“Well, {242}it won't be very long before you can go. I have no mother to welcome me; you're a lucky boy, Ralph. But we are ordered to Union Springs, about forty miles or so from here, to do post duty. They are having lively times down there between the darkeys and their former owners, and they need us to adjust matters. The boys are being disbanded as fast as possible, and it will be our turn soon.”

“I shall not be sorry, but I have had many instructive and useful experiences. Life in the army has been to me the best school I ever knew. It has taught me the beauty of discipline, the value of freedom, and an insight into military affairs which I never could have had. It has left me, too, with a warmer admiration for the blessings of a wise, just and stable government.”

“Well, {243}I never gave these things a thought, but I believe you are right, and I don't know but I'm better prepared to take up the business of life than I should have been without this training. But to the case in hand. We leave here in a day or two, and shall be compelled to say good-bye forever to some very nice people we have met.”

“That's true, Steve, and I am sorry it must be so.”

Two days later, and while the daily papers were full of the descriptions of the gorgeous spectacle the review furnished, they moved on to Union Springs. Here they found a turbulent element which only the presence of soldiers could quell. Remaining here until the middle of July, they had orders to proceed to Vicksburg, where they were to be mustered out of the service of the United States.

It was August before they reached Vicksburg, where they were discharged from further service. When Ralph stepped on board the steamer which was to convey them to Cairo, he was overjoyed. His spirits bubbled over like a schoolboy's, and he mingled with the gay crowd of passengers, with a light heart. The water was low, and as they sailed between the banks, the sounds of industry were plainly to be heard, as the blacks worked in the fields.

As they glided along, the merry throngs were amusing themselves, some in the cabin, dancing to the music of the piano, some chatting as pleasantly with the soldiers as if their acquaintance had extended over years, and all light-hearted and careless. A sudden commotion was heard, and the quick, sharp voice of the captain giving orders. Too late--a sudden jar, a trembling of the boat, and a crash, over all of which were heard shrieks of terror and the hoarse shouting of the officers, as the boat, with her hull completely torn away, began to settle into the muddy bottom.

A huge snag, floating down stream, had caught the boat's hull, and completely destroyed it, and the steamer was sinking like lead.

The river was alive with frightened human beings, some of whom {244}had jumped at the first shock, while others had been hurled into the water. Ralph was among the latter, and his terror was intense, as he wondered, with lightning-like rapidity, whether he had passed through so much danger, only to perish miserably just when he felt that he was safe. He was overcome but a moment, however, and seeing the gang plank floating a few yards away, he swam toward it, and seizing one end, he raised himself upon it and began to plan what he should do next. The cries of some were growing feebler. He saw men on the bank putting boats out from shore, and as he floated along he called loudly to those within sound of his voice, trying to encourage them. He caught a lady by her dress and placed her on his raft, then a child floated by, whose light form he grasped firmly, as he laid her on the planks. Thus Ralph managed, by courage and strength, to save fifteen persons on his clumsy but exceedingly useful craft.

He paddled them to shore, and on his way he saw a young black girl who had been on board with her mistress. She was being drawn at a rapid pace through the water, by hanging to the tail of a mule, who was swimming vigorously to land. One moment her head would be under the water, as the mule went along, and the next she would come up to the surface, sputtering and shaking it from her streaming head, but never for an instant relaxing her hold of the frightened animal, who must have wondered a little why he was being used for a tow boat. Ralph's love of fun and the queer spectacle overcame him, even in the midst of danger, and as she went by, he asked her how she was getting along.

“Fust rate, massa. We'll make de passage, I 'low, sooner dan yo' crew will.”

All the passengers were saved, and those who owed their rescue to Ralph's courage, would have made him the hero of the hour, but he modestly disclaimed any praise, for it was by mere luck, he said, that the gang-plank came his way, and any one would have done as much, or even more. {245}

A {246}gunboat was sent to take them up the river, and soon the placid scenery of the Mississippi was exchanged for the ripe fields, the well-tilled farms of Illinois, as they were whirled on the train toward Chicago. The sun poured down his hottest beams, the skies were sultry, and the pavements hot and dusty, when they reached that city, but a reception awaited them, which made the heat and dust seem trifles, as they marched through the lines of people who greeted them on their return from the war. And as the battle flags were borne aloft, some mere tattered rags, some with blood dyed folds, carried by maimed and scarred veterans, whose eagle eyes scanned the throngs to find some one whom they knew and who would clasp them by the hand as in the olden time, there was not a man in those thinned ranks but thanked his heavenly Father that once more he trod the soil of a clime where peace folded her snowy wings, and the sounds of war and discord were heard no more.

When the train rolled into the depot, Ralph heard the shouts and cheers going up for the boys in blue, and a six-pounder was fired off, giving them a salute of thirty-six guns. He felt proud to belong to that stalwart band of men who had borne the brunt of the battle, and whose hands had helped to rear the massive structure of a reunited nation upon an enduring base--freedom for all. And then cheers broke forth from thousands of throats, women's faces grew brighter, children caught the contagion of joy, and men shouted v and hurrahed until they were hoarse. The boys had come home from the war, and their toil and privations were past. Never again, it was to be hoped, should the wave of dissension sweep across the land, but the banner of liberty should float from every tower and dome, for all nations to honor.

The soldiers had caught the glad spirit of welcome, and as they wheeled into line and kept step to the music of their bands, every nerve tingled and burned, and their hearts beat tumultuously. They were to be shown still farther attention, for they were escorted to a hall, {247}where, when they had “stacked arms,” they clasped hands with old friends, and after a half hour passed in renewing old friendships and making new, they were invited to an elegant banquet, to which they all did justice.

To Ralph the scene was a revelation--the brightly lit hall, the perfume of countless flowers, the kind attentions of beautiful women, and the eloquent speeches--all in turn charmed him, and the home-coming seemed, indeed, a delightful fairy vision.

But there were yet three weary days of waiting ere the final forms were gone through with, the regiment paid off, the Board of Trade having assumed the payment, so as to permit the men to return home more speedily, and to Ralph they were the longest and most tedious he ever remembered. But at last his face was turned homeward, and as he sprang from the car, and hurried along the one short mile that divided the dear mother from him, his sunburned and speaking face, the erect form and swinging, elastic step, bore no resemblance to the boy who had come home to die, two years before.

His mother and sisters stood in the doorway, and as they threw their arms around him, and pressed him to their hearts, he knew at last the sweet and tender bliss those two simple words conveyed--“Home again!”

And when, in the years that followed, the simple army boy rose to position and fame in the field he chose for a life-calling, his dearest memories were of the toil and pain and sacrifice of the days he spent in the army. His proudest boast was that, humble as were his services, obscure as he was, he gave all he had, youth, energy, enthusiasm and endurance, to the cause of universal freedom, and dearly as he loved his mother and home, he still more dearly loved the land of his birth.

THE SANITARY COMMISSION.

I want to tell the boys and girls who have followed Ralph's simple story to the end of the war, about a grand body of men and women who worked valiantly for the soldiers while they were fighting in the field. Indeed, it would be unjust to the wives, mothers {248}and sisters of the boys of the days of the war, did I not say something about this noble enterprise.

It has been said that women cannot fight, but even that assertion is not strictly true, for the records of history have furnished many cases of women going to the front with their husbands, disguised as men. But though they did not help swell the quota of soldiers, they did noble deeds--they cheered and comforted the boys in the field, and took tender care of them when sick or hungry. And one of the most powerful outgrowths of this humane and womanly sympathy was the Sanitary Commission.

When the war broke out, in 1861, the women of the North met at once in many places to confer with each other as to the best means for taking proper care of the sick and wounded. They commenced to form societies, and chief among their objects was the wise one of bringing the sick home wherever it was possible, purchasing warm clothes, provisions and little additions to their comfort which the Government could not supply, the sending of books and papers to the camps, and keeping informed as to the condition and needs of the soldiers, by corresponding with officers of regiments, thus learning all they could about individuals.

Such efforts were lofty and patriotic, and coming to the notice of Dr. Henry Bellows and Dr. Elisha Harris, they talked the matter over, and proposed to call a meeting, to get things into shape. They saw the value of the aid which women could give, so selecting Cooper Union. New York City, for a gathering-place, they invited all the societies of women whose aims were similar to meet with them, and this hall, one of the largest at that time, could scarce contain those who came, so earnest was the interest taken in the matter. A permanent association was formed, and a constitution was framed by Dr. Bellows.

{249}

The next step they took was to send a committee to Washington, offering the Government their services. General Scott received it kindly, but did not see that it was right to give the members {250}any authority. But they were not discouraged, though it is sad to say that the first days of the Commission were very dark, for they found army officials full of jealousy, for they could not see that anything which could be practical and useful could exist outside of the regulations.

The Government itself had just gone through the hard task of making matters straight between the regular army and the volunteer, and very naturally dreaded any further agitation, or the opening up of any new topic. But after trying so hard to accomplish something, they were glad of even the permission given them to form a commission, which should consult with the government as to the sanitary condition of the people. This was a small concession, but it was the beginning of an immense undertaking.

Still, they were distrusted and suspected, and at this unfortunate juncture, their friend, Surgeon-General Lawson, died, and was succeeded by Dr. Clement Finley, who was bitterly opposed to the movement. Another long struggle ensued, which was ended by permission being given them to form a commission that should act only in connection with officers of the volunteer army, and have no authority whatever. This was permitting them to do good only on their own responsibility. Even Mr. Lincoln, whose heart was ever in the right place, seemed to consider their plans and aims as of small account, but he, with Secretary of War Simon Cameron, yielded, and the association was, on June 13, 1861, made real.

One of its first steps was to obtain the discharge of boys (of whom there were a large number in the army) who were too young for hard service, and sickly men who had been mustered in through careless and hasty examinations.

From this time the Commission grew, until it had so many, avenues of usefulness that it became too vast to attempt to carry out its designs under one head, and so women everywhere were called upon to help in the great work by forming local societies, to carry on their labors. More than 7,000 such sprang into {251}existence, all of whom raised supplies of food and clothes and money to bestow on the brave boys in hospital and field. It is estimated that in the course of the war the Sanitary Commission provided 4,500,000 meals for sick and hungry soldiers. They also had ambulances, and were often found on the field with supplies, and at the very front, rescuing those who were wounded. It had hospitals and depots for the objects of its care. It had camps for soldiers who were convalescent, and not only looked after the physical needs of the boys in blue, but in connection with the Young Men's Christian Association measures were taken looking to their souls' needs, also, and religious reading matter was given them, prayers and addresses were had at the recruiting offices, and a hymn book was compiled, which seemed to be exactly what a soldier needed.

The Sanitary Commission had a ready assistant in the Christian Commission, which came into existence as a working body on November 14, 1861. These two organizations worked harmoniously together, and it can never be told how much good they did.

Among the many women who gave their whole strength with sincerity, we have space for but a few names, although the list might lengthen out indefinitely, for to woman is due the credit of unselfishness and patriotism and earnestness in whatever project she engages. She never gives her efforts grudgingly, but puts her whole soul forth. The women of the North and of the South gave all they had---their dear ones whose going away clouded the light of home, their services in ministering to the sick, their patient skill in furnishing articles for their personal use. All these things women did for the cause, and much more.

Miss Taylor was born in New York, but lived at the breaking out of the war in {252}New Orleans. She was ever ready to work in the hospitals, and gave liberally of her means to the boys in the army.

It is told of her that it was well known that she loved the old flag, and this caused bitter feelings, a mob once even surrounding her house, and demanding to know her sentiments. She was watching her dying husband. They gave her five minutes to say whether she was for the North or South, and threatened her that if she was for the North, they would tear down her house. Her brave answer was, that she was and ever should be, “Tear my house down if you choose!” she said To their honor, be it said, although very angry with her, they dispersed without doing her any injury.

A young lady who volunteered as a nurse just after the first battle of Bull Run was Miss Hattie A. Dada, also of New York. She worked incessantly through the entire war, part of the time in the Eastern and part in the Western armies. She was taken prisoner by the Confederates after the retreat of General Banks in the Shenandoah Valley, and was held three months. After her release she spent two years in the hospitals at Murfreesboro, a very arduous field of labor.

Philadelphia was a point which received Hi a large number of soldiers who passed through that city, either going to the front or going home on furlough--often disabled. Several ladies established an eating-house for their benefit, where they could obtain meals free.

{253}

One of the most tireless workers in this direction was Mrs. Mary B. Wade, who, in spite of her being over seventy years of age, never left her post save {254}for necessary sleep, but waited on them night and day, during the four years of the conflict.

There were many other opportunities for women to work in the cause. Bazars were held, materials were solicited and manufactured for sale, speeches were made, arousing patriotic sentiments, and societies were formed to assist formed to assist the families of soldiers. There was no end to the calls for kindly offices.

Among the foremost of those who turned their talents to this use, was Mrs. Mary A. Livermore, of Boston, the celebrated pulpit orator. Her efforts were given freely to making the Northwestern Sanitary Fair, held at Chicago, an immense success.

Perhaps no woman's name is so widely known, after Florence Nightingale's, of the Old World, as having labored long and unceasingly in the cause of humanity, as is that of Clara Barton. Her arduous services in field and hospital, her untiring devotion to the welfare of the soldier, her efforts to find the dead and missing, so as to send word to their kindred, her weary search in Southern prisons for news of the absent, and her formation of a corps of nurses to work for the helpless in the present war, have endeared her to every humane heart in our land. She knows no distinction--all are alike the objects of her bounteous care. And when the names of those who love their kind go down into history, Clara Barton's will be honored and revered among the first killed at Cold Harbor; it unnerved her so that her own death followed soon, and on the 27th of July, 1864, she passed away to a heavenly shore.

{255}

The famous author, Louisa M. Alcott, whose “Little Women” almost every girl in the land has read, was a most devoted nurse in the hospitals, and afterward embodied her experiences in a book entitled “Hospital Sketches.”

There were women on both sides of the contest Margaret {256}E. Breckenridge, a relative of the celebrated Breckenridge family of Kentucky, served constantly in the hospitals, until she was prostrated by illness. Her pure face and lovely manners made the boys regard and call her “The Angel.” She was very ill, but determined to continue her “labor of love,” when the death of her brother-in-law, Colonel Porter, who was who {257}did effective work as spies, for the cause they espoused. Among the most noted of these was Pauline Cushman, a Union spy, who was wounded twice while in the service, and was made a major by General Garfield, and Belle Boyd, who was famous throughout the war as one of the most daring and successful spies the Confederacy had.

The life of spies is one of incessant danger, and demands rare qualities of mind to carry out their designs. Whatever opinion may be formed of their vocation, it is a historic truth that spies are absolutely necessary in time of war.

The scars of the great Civil War we know are healed. We have given our dearest and best, and as one great and united people, we are marching on to a grander future than even the most hopeful could have foretold.

Peace had come to our land, but the man whose splendid generalship had won it for us, was seized with a painful affection of the throat, which soon developed into cancer. The heart of the nation went out to him in sympathy, but human aid could avail nothing.

He was an agonized but patient and uncomplaining sufferer, and during all his illness he worked laboriously at his “Memoirs,” which he had undertaken to write for publication, and finished them but four days before he died. He had passed through a long year of pain and anguish, ended only by his death, which took place at Mt. McGregor, near Saratoga, New York, July 23, 1885.

His funeral was probably the most imposing ever accorded to a {258}citizen of our great Republic. Although twice called to the Presidential chair as a tribute of the love of a grateful people, yet his highest title when death came was that he was a simple American citizen.

{259}

His admirers at once set to work to raise a fund to build a tomb worthy of the hero; it was completed, and General Grant's remains were removed to it, and the structure given up to the city {260}of New York, on the 27th of April, 1897, with magnificent ceremonies. The celebration occurred on the recurrence of his birthday, he having been born at Point Pleasant, Ohio, on April 27, 1822. His tomb stands on a height of land at the north end of Riverside Park, New York City, where a fine view of the beautiful Hudson is had, and is a just tribute to a truly great man.

Our dead are not forgotten. The custom of strewing flowers on the graves of the dead soldiers, in the cemeteries of the North and South, has taken a deep hold upon the hearts of the people, and yearly the beautiful ceremony is faithfully observed, Thousands wend their way to the resting-places of the dead and cover the green mounds with those sweet emblems of remembrance and love.

It {261}is a blessed thought that, though they have gone hence, and their battle cry sweeps no more like a whirlwind in the faces of the enemy, yet the sacred anniversary brings back the memory of their heroic deeds, and as the bands of music peal out in solemn strains, and the tongues of orators are heard, recounting the story that will never grow old, the heart is stirred by a tender love for them, and goes out to the dead of the army who wore the gray as well. They were dear to their friends, among their most precious possessions, who mourn them deeply yet. The boys in gray laid down their lives with a complete renunciation of self, and their graves should be honored and remembered.

Memorial Day has become what its name signifies--a mingling of the friends of the Blue and the Gray, and a cordial exchange of mutual courtesies. The graves of both are decked in unison in many of the resting-places of the nation's soldier dead.

The thought of decorating the graves of their dead comrades originated with the Grand Army men, and they inaugurated the custom on May 30, 1868.

Let this hallowed duty be observed in every graveyard of our land. And when the blossoms of beauty are borne to their resting-places, scatter them with lavish hands over the men who wore the Blue and the Gray, alike. They are slumbering peacefully under the green sward, and the sounds of conflict will disturb them no more. As we stand at their graves, let gentle thoughts of love and sympathy drive forever away all harsh or bitter memories. Let us think of them as having finished the battle--it is over, and they have gone to their reward.

The sun shines kindly down upon them; may its beams brighten and bless every living soul on whom they fall.

When the veil fell upon the drama of the Civil War, it was believed that the throes of battle would never again convulse' our land. Peace was welcomed and hopes were indulged that it would be perpetual. Brothers met brothers again in the walks of social and business life, the scars of discord were healed and the rude sounds of dissension were banished. {262}

TWO VOICES.

A {263}SOUTHERN VOLUNTEER.

Yes, sir, I fought with Stonewall,

And faced the fight with Lee;

But if this here Union goes to war,

Make one more gun for me!

I didn't shrink from Sherman

As he galloped to the sea;

But if this here Union goes to war,

Make one more gun for me!

I was with 'em at Manassas--

The bully boys in gray;

I heard the thunderers roarin'

Round Stonewall Jackson's way,

And many a time this sword of mine

Has blazed the route for Lee;

But if this old nation goes to war.

Make one more sword for me!

I'm not so full o' fightin',

Nor half so full o' fun,

As I was back in the sixties

When I shouldered my old gun;

It may be that my hair is white--

Sich things, you know, must be--

But if this old Union's in for war,

Make one more gun for me!

I hain't forgot my raisin'--

Nor how, in sixty-two

Or thereabouts, with battle shouts

I charged the boys in blue;

And I say I fought with Stonewall.,

And blazed the way for Lee;

But if this old Union's in for war,

Make one more gun for me!

HIS {264}NORTHERN BROTHER.

Just make it two, old fellow!

I want to stand once more

Beneath the old flag with you,

As in the days of yore

Our fathers stood together,

And fought on land and sea

The battles fierce that made us

A nation of the free.

I whipped you down at Vicksburg,

You licked me at Bull Run;

On many a field we struggled,

When neither victory won.

You wore the gray of Southland,

I wore the Northern blue;

Like men we did our duty

When screaming bullets flew.

Four years we fought like devils,

But when the war was done,

Your hand met mine in friendly clasp

Our two hearts beat as one.

And now when danger threatens,

No North, no South, we know;

Once more we stand together

To fight the common foe.

My head, like yours, is frosty--

Old age is creeping on;

Life's sun is lower sinking,

My day will soon be gone;

But if our country's honor

Needs once again her son,

I'm ready, too, old fellow--

So get another gun.

A REMINISCENCE.

HE {265}night had fallen slowly and softly. The stars had stolen out, now dancing gaily in one corner of the heavens, and now a cluster of them marched forth in stately fashion. The air was quiet; even the leaves had quit whispering, the breeze had died away, and they nodded sleepily on their stems. Pretty Alice Whiting sat on the porch of the one-story, old style plantation house, and lazily wished the tea-table, whose disorder showed it had been attacked by hungry mouths, would vanish bodily. But it didn't, and she ruefully contemplated the prospect of clearing it up herself, with much chagrin, for such lovely nights, she declared, were not made to work in.

She had come to Memphis from the North with her husband and brother, who had “settled” in that hospitable city. Frank and Will had gone to the lodge, and she had been dreaming of her far Northern home. As she sat there her head rested against the vines which covered the porch, turning it into a perfect bower of beauty. Her dark brown hair waved and curled around a broad, full forehead; her features were far from regular, but the piquant nose and smiling mouth redeemed them, and gave a saucy charm which was more pleasing than set beauty. And as the moon rose in the sky, until her pale beams lit up the darkened porch, flooding every corner, she made as pretty a picture as one would wish to look upon. Something of this thought evidently passed through the mind of the man who had stolen noiselessly through the garden until he stood by her side, for he looked earnestly upon her as if loth to disturb her, and then longingly at the table, which had abundance, even after the appetites of the household had been appeased.

With a start she sprang to her feet. Her heart beat loud and {266}rapid with fear, as she looked at the stranger. Visions of burglars, guerrillas and all the clan, flitted through her brain, and held her dumb, unable to utter a sound, from pure terror.

Certainly the man before her was not one to reassure her, for he was wild-eyed and dirty, and his ragged clothes had fallen away from his thin frame.

“Don't be afraid, ma'am,” he said, in a voice intended to be gentle and assuring; “all I ask is a bite to eat. I'd never hurt a woman.”

She drew a quick breath of relief.

“Are you hungry?” she asked.

“Hungry? Look at me, ma'am. Do you see any signs of the gourmand about me?” pointing to his pinched face.

“I'll give you something to eat--for Eddie's dear sake,” she added, in a faint whisper.

Bringing clean dishes, she poured out a cup of coffee, and bade him sit down and help himself.

“Can I have a wash fust?” he asked.

“Yes, and welcome.” Bringing him a basin of clear cold water and a towel, she had the pleasure of seeing some of the tawny hue disappear, and he seated himself and began to eat most heartily.

It was just after the war, and the city was full of homeless men, who roamed its streets, unable to find work, and actually living on charity. Some of them had no home to go to, and others could not raise the means to take them there.

“Pears like we wus whipped bad,” he said, between the mouthfuls.

She nodded an affirmative.

“I 'lowed General Forrest would help me to get back to Georgy. There's whar I belong.”

“Did you ask him?” The General was a resident of Memphis at that time.

“I went to see him about it, and he couldn't do nothing--said he had no money,” which was a fact, no doubt.

“I {267}tell you, them cussed Yanks fit well. They had good pluck, after all.”

“I think they proved that,” she said faintly, her terror returning, for she saw he thought her a Southerner as well as himself, and she had misty visions of being strangled, the silly girl. “Oh,” she thought, “will Frank never come?”

The man ate as if he had not seen food for many a day, and all the time his discourse was about the Yanks and what he'd like to do to' them. At last his hunger seemed satisfied, and rising, with his ragged, faded soldier cap in hand, he began to thank her profusely for her kindness. Something in her face arrested his attention, for he suddenly paused, and coming a step nearer to her, he said:

“I didn't like to beg, but I was nigh dead. If those Northern cusses hadn't beaten us into poverty, I'd have been home with my old mother now. I don't 'low they'd ever give a crust to a dog to keep life in his body!”

Her face flushed, and a sudden courage came to her. She answered, defiantly--

“Indeed, you do not do us justice. You do not know us.”

“Know you? Ain't you one of our people, ma'am?”

“I am one of those people you despise--a Yankee,” she answered, looking him steadily in the face.

“A Yankee? And you have fed _me_. Fed a man who has been abusing you right along, and you must hate him?”

“I do not hate you. Oh, no, I could not hate a single human being. You are one of God's children, and so am I.” The scowl of doubt and distrust fled from the man's troubled face. He towered above her, tall, gaunt, but powerfully built.

“But it seems strange you'd be so willing to help me out, when you knew that I was agin your kind. Why did you do it?”

“You were hungry, and asked me for food. I have a better reason than that, even. I am but a girl, but I had a little brother younger than I, the idol of our home, who went to war, as a bugler. He was so frail and boyish that they wouldn't enlist him as an able-bodied soldier, but he would go. He was wounded {268}and taken prisoner in the Battle of the Wilderness, carried to Andersonville, where he died. I made a solemn promise to my own heart that never, while life lasted, would a human being ask me for food in vain, even though I took the food from my own lips to give him. I will keep my word. You are welcome to all I have given you. May you never want.” The man looked down at her, and in a choked voice said: “Ma'am, may I take you by the hand?”

She held out both hands toward him, and as he grasped them and reverently bent over them, a tear dropped on their whiteness, and he walked quickly away into the silence and darkness of the night.

THE LITTLE BLACK COW.

AN INCIDENT OF THE WAR.

T {269}was the autumn of 1864, and the supplies for the boys in blue were being hurried forward. The Government purchased cattle in the North and West, and sent them to its soldiers, for they must be fed or they could not fight. The Southern army had not fared so well--they were destitute of nearly everything. Foraging had been kept up the troops on both sides, until the land was almost devastated. Families were suffering from hunger, for most of the able-bodied men were at the front, and only old men and pretended farmers remained to till the land. These latter belonged to the roving bands of guerrillas who pretended to work the farm lands. Want stared women and children in the face. Little ones who could not understand the dreadful fever of hate and blood that was abroad in the land looked into the faces of their elders, and asked for food.

Thomas Grant was a young fellow of nineteen who had seen some service in the Missouri militia, and was full of life and youth. His early days had been spent on a farm in Northern New York, where his reckless courage and fine horsemanship had made him a leader among his boy comrades. When he entered the Government service it was for the purpose of driving cattle to the army for its use.

The position was one of great danger. Their steps were watched by guerrillas by night and by day, and many a stray shot {270}picked off a cattle driver or one of the soldiers who accompanied them as guards. Hurrying them over hill and dale, now in dense woods, and now over country roads, sometimes struggling and sticking in the clayey beds, it was a common event to have many of the tired animals, worn and footsore, fall down in their tracks, to be abandoned. These animals were a rich harvest for the guerrillas who hovered in their wake, like birds of prey, for they would capture the weary beasts, and convert them into food. It was the pride of a cattle driver when he could bring the bulk of his drove to the destined point, and deliver them to the quartermaster.

It was sultry, and the dust lay in heaps along the highway. The news had come that a large body of Confederate cavalry were about to attack Stevenson, Alabama, which was held by the Union forces, and the cattle were hurried out of the town as soon as the first beams of the morning sun lighted up the earth. The boom of cannon and the rattle of musketry lent wings to their going.

“The rebs are after us, and we'll lose every steer we have,” the foreman said to Tom Grant, who rode beside him.

The morning breeze brought the scent of the wild flowers on its wings, and as the soldiers guarding the train marched with easy, swinging step, it seemed more like a lively walk taken for pleasure than a dangerous undertaking. The hills ahead were clothed in a beautiful green, sprinkled thickly with the white clover so dear to the bovine tongue.

“We'll get away all right, Tom,” said the foreman, Jim Morrison. “But we must make quicker time than this. Our usual twelve miles a day ain't going to bring us out of the reach of the Johnnies, and before we get far they'd overtake us, and then good-bye to the steers, and to our own liberty as well.”

“There's trouble ahead already,” Tom replied. He was active and lithe, and ever on the alert, showing much skill in managing cattle.

“Blast that long-horned steer,” Cleary, the assistant foreman, cried. “They're on the stampede. Boys, go after them, lively.”

A {271}score of drivers set spurs to their horses, while the frightened animals, with tremendous leaps, thundered across an open field, and made straightway for a gully just beyond the field. The scene was one of wild confusion. The shouts and oaths of the drivers, the trampling and crowding of the maddened creatures, as they tore over the grassy field, and the sounds of the firing behind them, in the beleaguered town, were indescribable.

John Morrison and Tom Grant spurred their horses toward the flying cattle, intending to head them off, but Tom's horse was fleet, and coming up to the leading steer, he threw the whole force of his horse's breast against the steer's neck, and vigorously plying the whip to its nose, he checked its headlong career, and drew him into a circle. At once the remainder of the drove followed their leader, and quiet was restored. The unreasoning animals, governed only by instinct, were soon started on their original course.

The lieutenant in charge of the drove complimented young Tom in the warmest terms, stating that he had accomplished more than any ten men.

The journey was finished without any further incident. They made such good time that they escaped capture at the hands of the Confederates, and on arriving at Chattanooga, Lieutenant Reed was promoted to the charge of a drove of 3,000. This honor he knew was due principally to the ability and quickness of manouver which Tom Grant had exhibited, and to show his gratitude he had the boy appointed to the superintendence of the drove, a position which many an older man coveted.

Days passed slowly by; the cattle, many of them, grew restive and footsore. Often one or two would lie down, and then it was impossible to get them up again.

“Where did that little black cow come from?” one of the men asked, pointing to a cow walking sedately along in the drove.

“I suppose she's wandered in from some farm place we've passed on the way,” Tom Grant said. “But anyhow she's a godsend, for we'll have fresh milk now.”

“Can you milk?” the Lieutenant asked.

“Can I? {272}What was I brought up on a farm for, I wonder!” Tom responded.

“You're a regular encyclopaedia, Tom,” the officer laughed. “But, of course, the cream comes to headquarters.”

“Certainly--but what shall I raise it in, my hat?”

“We'll fix that. On second thoughts, think I'll take the cream with the milk--just whenever I can get it.”

The little creature was as smooth as satin, and quite plump. To Tom's charge she fell, and he milked her each day as he promised he would, and she soon became known as “Tom's cow.”' She seemed quite at home.

One hot and sultry day, when they had traveled with considerable speed, Tom's prize showed signs of exhaustion. At last she could go no farther, but lay down, hot, tired and footsore, at a cross roads.

“We'd better let her rest and then we'll come back after her,” Jim Cleary said.

“That's the best thing we can do, I believe.” So the animal was left where she had dropped, and the drove kept on till they found a place where they could feed and rest for the night.

As soon as it began to grow dark Tom and his companion started back to where they had left the cow. She was not there, but a woman sitting outside of quite a pretentious, two-story house, informed them that a man who lived “down the cross road a piece” had driven her to his own home.

“We'll have to get her back, Tom, for she's quite an acquisition to our larder.”

It was quite dark when they reached the place to which they had been directed. It was a weather-beaten old log house, with one room down stairs to serve the family, and an attic or loft above. Rapping at the door, they heard a gruff voice bid them enter. By the dim light of a sputtering candle they saw a rough, poorly dressed man and a woman sitting at a table which had no cloth, on which was some corn bread and sorghum. The mother held a puny, sickly little girl in her arms, whose big {273}eyes roved restlessly around, as if wondering who the strangers were. A tin cup stood by her plate, full of milk.

“Strangers, what ar' yer business?” The man's threatening countenance seemed to demand an instant reply.

“We are looking for a cow we've lost.”

“Wall, what's that to me? Yer didn't expect to find it here in this cabin, did ye?”

“Not exactly in the cabin, but we heard it was down here.”

“Wall, that's about so, but I found the critter lying down in the bottoms, and I concluded she was as much mine as any one's.”

“That ain't so, for we own the cow; that is to say, she joined our drove of cattle we are taking to the army, and so we have the first claim on her.”

The man seemed to be listening. He paused a moment, and looked furtively around, and then at the two armed men. He went on:

“I'd not have troubled it, only for the sake of my little un there. She's sick, and can't eat a thing. She'll die soon without some nourishment,” and he pointed toward the child, who was the picture of starvation.

Tom's heart was tender. He saw the man had not overstated the case, and he rose to go.

“Come, Jim,” he said, “You can see the child needs that milk bad--worse than we do. Mister,” he said, turning to the man, “you are welcome to the cow, on one condition; and that is, that you promise on your word as a father that the little girl may have all the milk she can drink, every day.”

The woman had not spoken till now, but with a glad look she started to her feet, and pressing the child into its father's arms, she said--“Jack, that's a fair bargain. And you're a fair man, sir, after all.”

The man looked at Tom, then out of the window, and said--“Look here, young fellow, you've, shown you've got a heart, and I won't be beat in doing the fair thing, by any one. This neighborhood is full of fellows who wouldn't mind giving you a chance {274}shot. The woman up at the big house has given them the word that you're here, and before you know it, there'll be a committee sent to wait upon you. Don't go back the same road you came, but strike for that piece of woods, and then cut across the fields, and you may get away. Hurry--you haven't much time before you--you know the rest.”

Into their saddles the two men vaulted, after thanking the man for his caution, and away they dashed. The stars were out in full force, and the darkness of an hour before had lifted, for the moon was rising, and as they entered the woods their shade hid them from sight. They rode fast through them, and struck a corduroy road, a rarity in that part of the country, and as they left it behind them, and were going to take the field, Jim whispered--“Don't stir a step. Pull your horse into that thicket. Over there I hear them after us.”

They could hear the horses galloping down the road they had just left, and by the faint light could see that there was a dozen or more men.

“A narrow escape for us,” said Tom.

“We haven't escaped yet. They'll not let us get off without scouring these woods.”

“Which way shall we go?”

“Why, away from this vicinity as quick as we can.”

“My Kentucky thoroughbred will carry me out of danger--she can outrun anything they've got.”

“But I've only got a long, lank, rangy old mule, and half-blind at that. I'm destined to be captured,” ruefully answered Jim.

“No, we're not--they are turning off into the left hand road; no, there's three or four taking the other one. Some have dismounted, and are talking with the man we've just left. He's true blue; he's pointing away in another direction.”

“Well, he's not so bad after all, even if he is a guerrilla.”

“Why, do you believe he's one of that band?”

“Sure as preaching he belongs to the gang who are bothering the whole country round here, and all that saved us was your generosity {275}in making him welcome to the little black cow. He's got a heart hid away somewhere, and you just touched it.”

Tom's eyes opened wide. “I couldn't see that little creature starving there, and not offer them something to help her out. Why, she was nothing but skin and bones.”

“We mustn't loiter here. It is a good three miles to camp, and we must make it quick, or they'll head us off before we reach the road.”

Touching their animals lightly with their spurs, they dashed across the open field toward another road, and were almost ready to congratulate themselves on their escape, when they heard a yell, and looking back they saw one of the guerrillas who had sighted them and was almost standing in his stirrups in his excitement, and shouting wildly to his companions, who were coming after him at full gallop. Tom and Jim did not need any further hint, but led the way, at a rattling pace. Tom was mounted on a racer, but Jim's army mule proved that he could run, for he kept pace with the horse, almost neck and neck. Whether he dreaded capture and being set to work, or feared being converted into mule meat, we are not able to say, but he held his own.

With shouts and oaths that were heard by the two men with distinctness, the guerrillas dashed after them, while they kept on with break-neck speed, now through a gully, then over a broken fence, and sinking in the furrows of fields that had been plowed in the long ago, now past a ruined building that rose up black and forbidding in the weird moonbeams, and then the lights gleamed friendly from one that was occupied. What the end of this John Gilpin ride would have been, it is hard to say, for the guerrillas were gaining on them, but at a turn in the road a dozen blue-coats were seen coming toward them. The pursuing foe fired a few wild shots, which were returned with a will, when they wheeled about and fled across the field, and were soon in hiding in the woods.

“Tom's cow came near getting me into trouble,” Jim Cleary said, when he finished telling the story to the lieutenant.

A few {276}weeks later, when they had reached Knoxville and gone into camp, an old, feeble-looking farmer came into the lines looking for Tom Grant. His hair was grizzled, and his beard uncut, and as Tom came toward him, he was surprised to see the wrinkled brown hand extended as if to clasp that of an old friend.

“You don't seem to recognize me,” the man said awkwardly. “You haven't forgotten the little sick gal and her mammy down in the country a hundred miles or so?”

“You're not the man who showed us so much kindness when you knew the guerrillas were on our track?” Tom asked.

“The very same. You see a gray wig and a butternut suit make quite a farmer outen me. I'll never forget you, stranger, nor how you saved my baby. She was the only gal we had left--we'd lost three, and when she took to that milk so, and you told me to keep the cow, why, I couldn't hold still. I'd had it in my heart to kill you both, that night. I had only to whistle and I'd have brought the whole band about your ears. The little gal--Eda, we call her--began to pick right up on that milk, and now she's as peart as any child you ever saw. My woman says to me--'Martin, go and tell that young fellow the good turn he has done us.' I've followed your trail for nearly a hundred mile to tell you that you will never be forgotten in our home, and I'll never raise a gun against a Yank again.” {277}

A WAR STORY.

HEN {278}the war broke out, Helen and Marie Mason, twin sisters, were left at home with no protector save two old slaves, Dan and Lois. Their father had given every dollar he had to the cause of the South. The two girls had grown up without a mother's care, for she had died when they were ten years old, and their father had mourned her so deeply that he had never thought of giving them a new mother. But they were not spoiled--they lived in this simple little home, tenderly guarded by their father, and all their needs had been carefully looked after by the two old slaves, who would have laid down their lives for them.

But when in the second year of the war, Mr. Mason went into the army, their hearts were nearly broken. They declared they could not spare him, the “old darling.” Were there not plenty of younger and stronger men? and besides, they were half Union at heart, and did not share their father's sentiments of fidelity to the Southern cause.

They showed no signs of their sorrow at the parting, but, with Spartan endurance, bade him a long farewell, and he set off, followed by the prayers of his beautiful daughters. Letters and messages came often to the little home by the Mississippi, and time did not hang quite as heavily as they had feared it would; but their father's letters were filled with bitter rancor, and he sought earnestly to impress upon their minds the enmity which {279}they should cultivate as daughters of the sunny South, against the soldiers of the North.

But there was one chapter in their life which he had not fully conned. Marie would sigh deeply over her father's messages, but Helen, who had more independence and self-reliance, found words of consolation for her.

In the days before the war, their home had been the scene of many a pleasant gathering, and among their guests were several young men of Northern birth, whom business or pleasure had brought to the South, and who had found great attractions within their charmed circle. Marie did not know why she took such pleasure in the coming of Walter Ryder, or why she felt so lonely when he was away. Her father had liked the young man for his manly, straightforward bearing and honest principles, but he could not tolerate his becoming a Union soldier, and when he learned of his intention, he forbade his gentle Marie ever to see him again.

In vain Walter had striven to see her, if only for an instant, so that he might say good-bye to her. She would not disobey her father, and yet it was with a bitter pang that she refused to meet him once more before his departure.

Old Aunt Lois saw how her lily drooped, but she had great faith in her master's judgment, and she didn't “like Northerners nohow,” and yet she wiped many a tear away with the corner of her blue-checked apron, as she lamented about “diswah dat upset eberybody's 'pinions so.”

Walter had gone without a word to cheer him. He had gone from the place which had grown so dear, and while pretty Marie wept, Helen chided her for her lack of fortitude.

The months went by, and they often heard through returned soldiers of Walter Ryder. Then came news that he was wounded, and then that he had died of his wound. The whole world seemed to have stopped then for poor Marie. She grew thin and white, and she reproached herself incessantly because she had so cruelly refused to see Walter. The house grew strangely still, {280}for there were no more social meetings, and Helen shared the gloom that enveloped Marie.

“Pears to me dat eberyting goes wrong,” Aunt Lois said, as she stopped in her mixing bread, and gazed out upon the landscape, which was beautiful to look upon.

But Aunt Lois was no poet or artist, only the colored cook in this lovely home. “Fust de wall cum--den Massa Mason brung home to die, and pretty Missie Helen sitting dar in her bodoor all alone all day, neber speaking a word to po' Miss Marie, who lubed her father dearly. Don't I know dat po' little gal is breaking her heart 'tween losing dat foolish man and her dear father?”

“Lois--Aunt Lois!” a sweet and girlish voice called.

“What is it, honey--Ise coming!”

Before she could take her hands from the dough a slender young girl, whose pure face would have made the veriest stranger admire it, burst into the kitchen, and sank in a heap at the feet of the old negress, who, now actually alarmed, seized her by the arm, and with a look of anxiety on her black face, asked the girl what had happened.

“I've seen him--seen Walter. They said he was dead. Oh, Aunt Lois, he looked so brave, so happy. I never thought he _could_ look happy again,” and the tears streamed down her face.

“Now cum here, chile, and sit in yo' old auntie's lap as yo' used to when yo' was a tiny gal, and I used to tell yo' stories and sing de old plantation melodies. Come, and you'll forgit all about yo' trubbles.”

Lois had cleared her hands by this time of the dough, and as she took the girl by the hand, a loud rap sounded on the outside door.

“Oh, look, there's a whole lot of soldiers on the lawn, but he ain't with them!” Marie added, as she peered from the window.

“Ise not afraid of sogers! What do you want?” Aunt Lois said, boldly advancing to the door, where a tall soldier in blue stood, with a dozen men, all armed. “Hello!” he said rather roughly, but catching sight of Marie, whose face was blanched with {281}terror, he spoke more courteously: “I beg pardon, Miss, but we are in search of a spy who goes by the name of Walter Ryder. We have tracked him to this place, and have orders to arrest him.”

“My--” she choked the telltale words, and with dignity answered: “Walter Ryder is not a spy, neither is he here.”

“I regret the necessity, Miss, but I must search the house.”

“You can,” she said, haughtily.

Leaving the soldiers posted around the house, the sergeant and two of the men entered the dwelling, and commenced the search, but it was useless, for no trace of Walter was found. When they came to the door of Helen's room, they found it locked, and yet they heard voices.

“I thought you were dead,” some one was saying. “My sister has mourned you constantly.”

They struck the butts of their guns against the panels of the door, and demanded admission, but no one answered. They pushed it open, and the girl who sat there sprang to her feet, thoroughly frightened, but no one else was in the room.

The three men looked at each other with a puzzled look. There was but one window in the apartment, and that was covered with a mass of clinging vines so dense and thick that they formed a complete mat. They pushed their bayonets through the tangled mass, but no one was there.

Helen gazed at them as if half stupefied. The sergeant courteously raised his cap, and said: “Miss, we are in search of a man whom we think is a spy--he certainly was seen in these grounds.”

“We do not harbor spies, sir.”

“I do not think you do--but he may have used your premises for a hiding-place. I beg your pardon for intruding. Right about face!” to his men, A still more prolonged search of the grounds revealed nothing, and after placing a guard, the remainder left.

But where was Marie? As soon as the soldiers had left the room she went back to Helen, who sat with bowed head, and {282}touching her gently on the arm, she whispered--“Sister.” A tender light shone in Helen's face, but she answered--“Marie, if you only knew how I have injured you--I have not been a sister to you.”

“Not a sister to me, dear Helen? Why, you are the dearest of sisters. What do you mean?”

“Marie, could you dream that your sister, who loves you so dearly, would willingly have wronged you so that you never can forgive me?”

“I cannot believe you, Helen. Explain, will you?”

“I poisoned our father's mind against you. I wrote him that you were receiving Walter Ryder's attentions, and that I had prevented an elopement by my watchfulness.”

“Helen! How could you? And that is the reason that he would not see me when they brought him home wounded. How cruel! Father, you cannot hear me, but you must know the truth now.”

“I dare not ask your forgiveness, nor dare I tell you why I did it.”

The girl stood before her sister, and in low and pleading tones she urged--“Tell me all, Helen. I _will_ call you sister,” as the other put up her hand with a gesture of pain. “You know how fond you were of Walter once.”

A frown contracted the brow of the girl who listened, and she buried her face in Marie's lap, as she continued--

“I am ashamed to tell you, my unselfish sister, that I have done such a grievous wrong. I, too, loved Walter Ryder. Do not start. I was infatuated, and when he asked our dear father's permission to address you, I hated him, and from that hour I lost no chance of ruining him in his estimation. He went into the Northern army, and that helped my cause. Father swore that no daughter of his should marry a man who would take up arms against the South. I played a double part. I told Walter of our father's objections, and also persuaded him that you were half promised to a colonel in our army. He went away, {283}and was killed at Chattanooga.” And the stately Helen broke into a passion of weeping.

“Sister, who told you that he was killed?”

“I have letters from cousin Will, telling me so, and lamenting his death, for he was much attached to him.”

“Did you not hear the soldier to-day charge Walter with being a spy?”

“I did not hear the name of the man they were looking for--it surely was not Walter?”

The rosy flush that rose to her cheeks made Marie turn faint. Could it be that her sister cared for him yet?

“Do not look at me as if you doubted me. That foolish passion has burned itself out. My only hope is that he lives, so that I may repair, in a measure, the wrong I have done you both. When I have seen you pining, my heart has ached for you.”

“Oh, Helen dear, how good you are!”

The twilight deepened, as they sat there, and a shot was heard, which brought them both to their feet. Another rang out, and with a wild cry of alarm the girls fled from the house, toward the spot from whence they came. Marie saw a form fleeing into the darkening woods, and heard the command “Halt!” It never paused, and as the soldiers raised their rifles to fire, she sprang almost in front of their weapons, and cried--“Do not fire again. You have killed him.”

“We have not fired at all. It was not our shot that struck him, but we were about to fire on the man who wounded him, and whom you saw running away,” Sergeant Hughes said, respectfully.

At a short distance they found Walter Ryder, who was wounded in the side, and as they carried him back to camp, he said--

“Take me to the Lieutenant. I can prove my innocence.” Marie and Helen threw themselves into each other's arms. Old Lois wrung her hands in despair.

“I tole you no good wud cum outen dat man's comin' round here,” she said to old Dan.

“I {284}doant know why not,” he said. “Wat you got agin him?”

“He ain't our sort,” she said, contemptuously. “Nordern men am diffunt from Soudern--doan yo' sense it?”

“Dat's not for me to explaticate. But who was it gib'd us our freedom but dem same Nordern men; and isn't it worf sumfing to own yo'self? Dat's wat de Nordern 'trash,' as you call 'em, has done for you and me.”

“I neber could talk wif you, old man, for youse always on de contrary side,” and she left the partner of her joys and sorrows with what was intended for a very lofty step.

“De old gal doant like my plain speaking,” Dan chuckled. “But Ise on de right side always.”

Next morning dawned brightly. As the birds sang their welcome to early day, a young girl left the house and walked rapidly toward the camp, a quarter of a mile distant. No one would have recognized the elegant Helen in her disguise. She wore a calico dress, much faded and too large for her, pinned in folds about her form. A sunbonnet hid her lovely face, and an old black cape completed the outfit. She carried a basket of fruit, and to all appearances was a country lassie seeking a market for her goods.

No challenge was given her. The customary “Halt!” was replaced by a gracious smile from the guard, and permission was given her to enter.

“I want to see the General who has charge here,” she said. A broad smile was on the soldier's face. “The General is out on business just now, Miss. Indeed, I haven't seen him for some time. Won't the Lieutenant do as well?”

The haughty look she gave him brought the flippant fellow to his senses.

“Miss,” he stammered, in an apologetic tone, “if you've got anything to sell, why you'd do better to see the cook. He buys all our provender, and will take your fruit, I'm certain.”

“I wish to see the officer who is in command here,” she continued.

“Bob,” {285}the guard said, “go tell the officer of the day that a lady wishes to see him.”

“The Lieutenant will see the lady at once,” the man said, on his return. Conducting her to a tent, she entered, and saw a very handsome young man, “far handsomer,” she thought, “than Walter.” His brown eyes rested inquiringly upon her as he arose and politely handed her a camp stool. She seated herself, but remained silent. He kindly said--

“Did you wish to see me on any particular matter? I am at your service.”

Helen's heart beat fast. She knew that she was placed in a strange position, but she felt she could endure any unjust comment, so that she could undo the wrong she had done her sister and Walter Ryder.

“Sir, I came to ask you if the young man who was shot yesterday, was killed?” and her voice faltered.

“Ah,” Lieutenant Gordon thought, “she is no simple country girl. Why is she interested in a Union soldier?” The query gave his voice a tinge of bitterness as he made reply--

“He was not, though he deserved death, for he is a Confederate spy.”

“Oh, sir, you are wrong. Believe me, he is no spy, and I will prove it to you, if you will only listen.”

In her excitement she had risen to her feet, and her sun-bonnet had fallen off, while her long dark hair rippled over her face, which was flushed and eager. Again that bitter feeling crossed the officer's mind as he gazed at her, half forgetting that she was waiting for his permission to explain.

“You will not shoot him as a spy--you cannot be so cruel!”

“Miss, it does not rest with me to decide the fate of the young man. He will be tried on the charge of being a spy, and if guilty--why, you know the rules of war.”

She looked at him steadily, and as their gaze met he felt there was some powerful reason for the feeling she showed. He waited courteously for her to speak, but her lips trembled and her voice failed her.

“Have {286}you any reason to give why he should not be punished?”

“I have--he is innocent, and I come to you to ask for his life. I must tell you the truth, and leave it to your honor to conceal as much of the facts as you can, consistent with his safety. My twin sister and I are deeply interested in him.”

“And so you are yet,” he thought, with a jealous pang. “He asked my father's consent to address her, but was refused because he joined the Northern army. I did not like the thought of her marrying him, and I did all I could to prevent it. He went away a long time ago, and we heard of him now and then, but at last we learned that he was killed at Chattanooga. Then my heart turned to fire, for I had driven him away without giving him a chance to hear my sister's promises of fidelity. I learned quite lately that he was not dead, but that his company was doing guard duty at this place. I was so thankful to know that he was alive, that I resolved to see him and tell him the truth. I wrote him, begging him to come to our house, and at a signal agreed upon I would see him and all would be made right. I signed my sister's name, for I wanted to be sure he would come. He was just outside my window, and I had begun to explain, when your soldiers burst into my room, and he hid in old Dan's quarters.”

“I trust the men were not rude to you,” Lieutenant Gordon said, alarmed.

“Oh, no, they treated us as all true soldiers will, with respect. But oh, if Walter is shot, I shall be a murderess!” The look of distress upon her beautiful face made her still more lovely, so the Lieutenant thought.

“I believe your story, Miss,” he said, “and will investigate at once. He had no right to be absent from his post without leave, but I suppose 'the end justifies the means,'” smiling into her inquiring face. “Meanwhile I will send a guard with you to insure your safety.”

“Please do not. I came here disguised as a fruit peddler, so as to excite no remarks, and I can go back the same way.”

“But {287}you have not told me what you have done with the young man?”

“He has been placed in the hospital. His wound is quite severe, but not fatal. The strangest part of the affair is, that not one of our men fired a shot. He was wounded by some one unknown to us.”

“Who could have done it?”

“I have no idea--possibly he has some enemy; most of us have.”

“I must hurry away. Breakfast will be ready, and my absence will make them wonder. Good-morning, sir, and many thanks for your kindness.”

“Good-morning, Miss--”

“Mason. I live but a half mile away, and I hope, if you are ever near us, you will call and tell us how Walter is. Or, rather, I had better send old Dan, our servant, here every day to inquire.”

“Do not trouble yourself to do that. I will do myself the honor of calling, to inform you how his wound progresses.”

It was strange how long it took Walter to recover, or at least how many calls Lieutenant Gordon was compelled to make, ere he deemed Marie's nerves would endure the shock of seeing him. Helen always had a bright welcome for the Lieutenant, and when she requested him to allow Marie and herself to visit Walter, the officer shook his head wisely and promised to help the wounded soldier over at a very early day. The latter had been chafing at the delay. Lieutenant Gordon had long since received proofs of his innocence as a spy, and was satisfied that his punishment had been severe enough, but his own case perplexed him. Was he pleasing in her sight; could she care for him; and how dared he tell her his own feelings?

Old Lois was always shaking her head in solemn disapproval. “What has dun got into dem two chilien?” she often asked old Dan. “Dey seems to be gitting 'witched wif dem couple Norvern men. Dey cahnt eider ob 'em hold a candle to Massa Colonel Allison, who's dun gone, on Miss Marie. Why, he's de man {288}after my own mind. His big black eyes flash like diamonds, and dat booful beard falls over his mouf like a willow tree. Doan know what young gals is tinking of nowadays.” Another shake of the head and a puckering up of the thick lips. “But here cums Dan; he never did like Massa Allison, so I won't 'spute wid him, for I 'spises family quarrels.”

Old Dan walked slowly and as if thinking deeply, up the path to the kitchen door, and stood there, looking in. Aunt Lois at first thought she would ignore his presence entirely, but curiosity triumphed, and as he showed no desire to talk, but turned off into the woods, she unbent from her dignity, and called loudly--“Dan--ole man!”

He turned impatiently, and said--“Let me alone, Ise engaged on particular business, dat wimmen don't know nufhn about conducting.”

Lois' nose went up into the air, or rather would have gone, were it not so flat and heavy she could not elevate it.

“How high and mighty old niggers can be!” was her retort. For a day or two there was an air of mystery about Dan which offended Lois deeply, but she wouldn't ask any questions. “If my ole man has any secrets from me now at his time of life, well, I'll find 'em out,” she said to herself. One forenoon he astonished her by saying--

“Does yo' like Massa Allison?”

“I dus. He's de kind of a gemman dat I likes to see 'roun. Whar's Miss Marie's eyes when she cahnt see how far s'perior he is to dose Norvern sogers who am jess libin' here now.”

“Yer wouldn't like him so well if yer knew he was a 'sassin, would yer?”

The old negress was all attention. “A 'sassin, what's dat?”

“A wicked man what tries to murder anuder jess becase he lubs de same gal dat he does.”

“Whose de man? Whar am he?”

“I'll tell yer sumfing, but yer musn't tell. Ise had de secret a long time, but I cahnt keep it any longer.”

“Perceed, {289}old man.”

“Massa Allison lubs our sweet mistis.”

“Which one?”

“Why, Miss Marie, ob course. I 'lows Miss Helen is all right, but she cahnt--”

“Dar yo' go, way off from de subjict. What did he do?” Dan tiptoed nearer to his spouse. “Yer 'members de day Massa Walter was shot. I was in dem woods after rabbits, when I seed Massa Allison wid a musket, lying flat on his face in some high bushes. I felt it was kind o' queer; yo' know he's home on leab ob absence, and so I watched him. Quick I heard de report, and saw Massa Walter fall right down, and Massa Allison rund away fast as a deer. I picked up his hankcher and his name is printed right on it, and I've kep' it in my bussum ever since.”

“You telling de troof? If yo' is, my symperthies go right ober to dat ar wounded boy.”

“Ise telling de troof, ole woman. And now yo' see why Ise got no lub for Massa Allison.”

“Well, we'd best keep dis yere news to ourselves. Yo' know a nigger's word never'd go before a white man's down here, so we'll jess keep our moufs shut.”

But Aunt Lois' prejudices were strong yet, and it took some little persuasion on the part of Dan before she would acknowledge that Massa Walter was as nice as one ob deir “own Soudern men were.”

Lieutenant Gordon had at first, when the company was assigned to provost duty, chafed restlessly, for he preferred being at the front, but as the weeks rolled on he became wonderfully resigned to his orders, and so one day he assumed a fierce martial look, and stormed the fortress of Helen's affections. It was a singularly easy victory, for she capitulated at once.

Walter's recovery was slow. When he first met Marie, his joy was almost overshadowed by timidity. He could scarce credit the assurance that she loved him. He never alluded to her sister's part in their separation, and this delicacy won for him {290}the gratitude of that young girl. The old slave, Dan, was jubilant. It had been arranged that Lois and he should accompany the two sisters to their Northern homes, where the parents of both the bridegrooms were awaiting them, eager to receive them. The dear old home was to be occupied by their cousin Will and his wife, a sweet-faced Southern girl, who assured them that it would ever be a home for them as well.

One fine morning in May a double solemn ceremony was performed which bound Marie and Walter and Helen and Lieutenant Harry Gordon together, for life. A few chosen friends were there, and Lois and Dan were decked out in all the colors of the rainbow. Dan chuckled audibly as he informed Lois that “dat ar Union was what de whole Souf and Norf ought to celebrate--a Union forever.”

Walters period of service had expired, and he was free to go. Lieutenant Gordon was to remain behind until the boys were discharged from the service.

“It will not be long before we shall be together again, dear sister,” Helen said. “General Lee has surrendered, the armies of both sides are being disbanded, and the time will pass quickly.” They sat on the veranda, where they had so often sat, and talked over their dreams and hopes.

The Colonel, whose shot came near ending a life, had disappeared after his murderous attempt. They never heard from him again, and in their luxurious homes the sisters dwell, loving and beloved.

ROBERT ANDERSON.

HIS {291}brave and loyal officer was born at “Soldiers' Retreat,” near Louisville, Kentucky, on June 14, 1805. His early days were pleasantly situated, his surroundings and companions being of the best. He was a graduate of West Point, leaving that school in 1825, when only twenty years of age. He was a very apt pupil. He entered the third Artillery, and saw considerable fighting in the Black Hawk War in 1832. He was appointed instructor of artillery tactics at West Point from 1835 to 1837, when he served in the Florida War, and in May, 1838, was made assistant adjutant-general to General Scott. He resigned this appointment upon being made captain, and accompanied Scott to Mexico in 1847.

He was wounded very severely at Molino del Rey, and for a time his life was despaired of. In 1857 he was lieutenant in the First Artillery; November 20, 1860, he assumed command of Charleston Harbor.

His loyalty to the old flag was proven at Forts Moultrie and Sumter. When he took command of the former he determined to place it in good condition, and he asked for money to make both forts more secure; large sums were allowed him for this purpose.

Fort Moultrie was far from being impregnable. Indeed, the land side was a good point for attack, so he concluded to remove to Fort Sumter, which was built on a rock at the entrance to {292}the bay, and could only be reached by boats. He made all his preparations with such secrecy that no one suspected his design, not even his second in command, Captain Abner Doubleday. The first intimation that the latter received was an order to go to Fort Sumter in twenty minutes. The families of the officers were sent to Fort Johnson, opposite Charleston, and afterward taken North.

The clever manner in which Major Anderson deceived the Confederates into believing that the troops which silently marched through the little village of Moultrieville that cold December eve, just after sunset, were only laborers going to Fort Sumter, is worthy of the cool and resolute commander. When they reached Sumter, the laborers who were at work in the interests of the Confederates, putting it in shape for their occupancy, opposed the landing of the Union soldiers, but were driven into the fort at the point of the bayonet. Major Anderson afterward sent them ashore, in the supply boats.

At noon of the next day, Major Anderson celebrated his possession of Fort Sumter by raising the Stars and Stripes and by prayer and military ceremonies.

His slender garrison, all told, comprised but sixty-one artillerymen and thirteen musicians. After he had thus taken possession of Fort Sumter, they did not have a very enjoyable time, for provisions were growing scarce, and the markets of Charleston would sell them nothing. Fuel was scarce, and the cold was severe. Besides, they had to resort to all sorts of stratagems to {293}keep up the appearance of being amply provided with ammunition and munitions of war, one of which was the filling of barrels with broken stone, with a heavy charge of powder in the center, which they would roll down to the water's edge, and burst, giving their watchful enemies the impression that the fort was filled with “infernal machines.” The garrison were in no very robust condition for fighting, for salt pork was nearly their sum total in the meat line.

Meanwhile, arguing went on between the Confederates and the garrison, to the effect that the United States government had gone to pieces and they ought to evacuate the fort quietly. But that was not the sort of material that Major Anderson was made of. And when fire was opened upon him, he returned it in kind, and fought valiantly. It was not till the 13th that he had to surrender. Twice the wooden frame on the inside took fire, and when the flag staff on the fort was shot away, a servant {294}named Peter Hart made a staff of a spar, and nailed it to the gun carriages on the parapet under the hot fire of the enemy.

On the 14th Major Anderson and his garrison sadly left the fort after saluting the dear old flag, and went on board the _Baltic_, which bore them to New York.

In May, 1861, Robert Anderson was made brigadier-general in the United States army, commanding the Department of the Cumberland. His health failed so rapidly that he was shortly after relieved and brevetted major-general in the regular army, when he was retired from service. In 1868 his health had failed so rapidly that he went to Europe, hoping for relief. His translations from the French on military matters, have been accepted as valuable textbooks, and are used by the War Department. The health he sought eluded him, and his death took place at Nice, France, October 26, 1871.

GENERAL ROBERT E. LEE.

ENERAL ROBERT EDWARD LEE came from what is known in the South, as a good family. He was the son of Colonel Henry Lee, who was known in Revolutionary days as “Lighthorse Harry.” Robert was born at Stafford, Virginia, January 19, 1807. He became a cadet at West Point in 1825, and graduated second in his class, composed of forty-six members, in 1829. He never received a mark of demerit or a reprimand during his four years at that institution, thus showing that he honored discipline--a fine trait in the young. He became a lieutenant in the corps of engineers, and superintending engineer in improvements of the harbor of St. Louis and the upper Mississippi. He also served with great distinction as chief engineer of the army under General Scott. His gallant conduct at Cerro Gordo, Contreras, Churubusco and Chapultepec, in the Mexican War, in the latter engagement receiving {295}a severe wound, won him honors, and he was brevetted major, lieutenant-colonel and colonel.

He was appointed superintendent of the military, academy at West Point from 1852 to 1855, when in the latter year two new regiments of cavalry were formed, in the second of which he secured an appointment as lieutenant-colonel, a most deserved honor. Two years were spent in Texas, but a leave of absence being granted him, he returned to Virginia. He had command of the forces sent to suppress old John Brown at Harper's Ferry, in October, 1859.

The year 1832 was an eventful one to him, for in that year he chose a fair daughter of his native State, for his bride. The lady whom he selected was Mary Custis, daughter of G. W. P. Custis; the latter was the grandson of Martha Custis, and the adopted son of George Washington. General Lee became heir to the estates of Arlington House on the Potomac, and the White House on the Pamunkey. The Arlington estate was confiscated by the Government during the war, and is now national property, and the site of a Union soldiers' cemetery.

When the ordinance of secession was passed in Virginia, April 17, 1861, he at once resigned his commission in the United States army, and wrote to General Scott these words--“Save in defence of my native State, I never desire again to draw my sword.” He felt keenly that there was no need of revolution, and would gladly have asked for redress of whatever grievances his State felt that they suffered, but in vain, and he declared that {296}although his devotion to the Union was sincere, and he knew what was demanded of the duty and loyalty of an American, yet he could not raise his hand against his friends, his children, and his home.

Virginia had seceded from the Union, but had not yet acknowledged the Confederacy. He was chosen major-general of the forces of the State, a trust which he honestly assumed, and for more than a year, although he was named as one of the five generals whom the State elected after it joined the Confederacy, in May, still he was merely superintendent of fortifications at Richmond, and a sort of military adviser to Jefferson Davis.

His military record, as commander of the Southern army, proves him to have been one of the ablest generals that history furnishes us any record of. When he met General Grant in that little Virginia village, to confer with him as to terms of surrender, it was the meeting of two great commanders, each worthy of a world's admiration.

After the war General Lee refused to attend any public gatherings, but lived a secluded life. His fortune had vanished, his hopes had been defeated, and he was compelled to accept the position of President of Washington College, Lexington, Va. This was in October of 1865. To the last he was in favor of reconstruction in the South, without recourse to arms.

On the evening of September 28, 1870, he was struck with paralysis, and lived but a fortnight, dying on October 12. Thus passed away a man of great nobility of character, brave and sincere.

His wife, Mary, followed him on November 6, 1873. The General had three sons and four daughters. All of his sons served in the civil war.

AFTER THE BATTLE.

T {297}was just after the battle of Chancellorsville, and the storm of shot and shell had ceased to rain upon the wounded, who were pinioned in the blazing woods, when the sudden blow which Stonewall Jackson's army had struck, had left a trail of woe and blood. The dense forest had hidden the oncoming of Jackson's forces. They stole in noiselessly and fell upon the Union men under General Hooker, like an avalanche.

The pickets had not given the alarm, so swift and silent had been Jackson's advance. The battle was over. The musketry had ceased its rattle, and darkness had fallen, lit only by the red blaze which enwrapped the Confederate and Union wounded, without mercy. Some of them had tried to crawl away from the consuming fire, which played about them, and licked up leaves and underbrush, and now and then, as a gust of wind arose, sending the burning brands into the treetops to start a new conflagration.

The heat burned into their wounds, and as the shrieks of those who could not drag themselves away rose on the air, it seemed as if demons were calling to each other, so madly did they shout for help and mercy from the pitiless wall of fire.

Men were caught as if in a network, and held prisoners indeed. Choking with the smoke, blinded by the sparks whirling in every direction, there seemed no hope or chance for rescue.

{298}

Here {299}a dead man's face, caught by the flames, was scorched and disfigured so that his dearest friend could not have recognized him. Near him lay a living soldier with bloodshot eyes and aching wounds, terror written on his features--terror born, not from the fortunes of battle, not of the foe whom he has met face to face, but terror of the black night' the loneliness, the awful thought that the dead are all around him, a somber scene lit up by the fire that seizes some helpless one, never releasing him until he has lost the semblance of a man, and is only a charred fragment.

That night was a fearful reality to many. Its horrors can never be told, for those best able to repeat the story, perished where they lay. Details were sent out by the Federals after Jackson's advance had been checked, to save the victims in the burning forest, and heroically they worked, but alas, they could not reach half of the wounded.

At the foot of an oak whose lofty head towered above the scene, two soldiers fought valiantly for life. They were no longer arrayed against each other, but against their mutual enemy, the fire-fiend. One wore the blue, the other the gray. Both had gaping wounds, but their peril was the same, and as they struggled to their feet, weak from loss of blood, the bitterness died out of their hearts. They were once more friends, comrades, and together they labored to stamp out the destroyer. Their breath came quick and short, their voices sank to a whisper, but shoulder to shoulder as of old, they met as brothers--and nobly they battled with the flames, now smothering a burst of fire, now cheering each other with brave words, until, slowly and painfully they advanced, step by step, to a spot where the cool ground received them, as they fell, fainting, almost dying, where they were found by the boys who were sent to rescue, and whose work had been that of heroes.

And when, once more they struggled back to life, hand met hand in a friendly grasp, and heart beat joyously to heart, as they thanked their heavenly Father that they were saved from a fiery furnace.

A BOOTBLACK OF TENNESSEE.

RELY {300}Percy was a product of the war--one of those stray “chilluns” who drifted into camp with the refugees who were constantly coming under Uncle Sam's paternal care.

It was but a short time before he drifted out again and into our home. We (Allie and I) were in search of a boy “to run errands,” and do odd jobs about the house, and this particular boy was sent to me by one of our soldier friends. When we saw his mirthful face (he had a perpetual grin) we thought he'd do very nicely for us. It was quite the fashion for boys to work in families in Memphis, washing dishes, preparing vegetables, and kindred labors, and though at first our Northern ideas were rudely disturbed by that fact, we soon became used to it, and enjoyed having a boy for such work. Indeed, it was rather a relief to Allie, for, as she said, if she hired a girl of the same age she would be in a measure responsible for her manners, and she would have to instruct her in the care of her wardrobe; but with a boy no such difficulties presented themselves. Like too many white boys of good families, it was supposed a boy could knock around and shift for himself; in other words he did not need any particular care, beyond providing him with enough to eat, drink and wear.

The boy informed us when he came to us that his name was Percy. Allie suggested that it would be much more ready to call him Jim or Sam. In an instant his family pride was up in arms.

{301}

“'Scuse {302}me, Missie, but I cahnt go back on my raising dat ar way. It wud be slighting my marsa's family. Percy it is, and I cahnt see my way clar to answer to no oder name.”

We afterward learned that his name was Jerry, and that he had fallen deeply in love with the name Percy, it belonging to a colonel in the Southern army who used to visit at his master's house, and so he had appropriated it.

But Percy it remained, and if it was rather incongruous to see the high-born Percy scrubbing the kitchen floor or delving into the garbage box in search of a silver fork or spoon that he had thrown in with the remains of a meal, it couldn't be helped.

He had some odd ways about him, that rather startled Allie. He believed in Voodooism and when one day he informed her in a stage whisper that a very elegant old lady who called often, but who had lost one eye through some misfortune, was a witch, and was trying to “spell” him, she promptly ordered him out of the house till he could learn to keep his thoughts to himself. He despised winter, and one morning when he woke up and saw a light snowfall that had come down the night before, he expressed himself thus--

“Now, Missie, that's what you uns calls pretty. I jess tinks it's de debil whispering bad tings to de earth, and she's ashamed of 'em, and cobers up her face.”

He never could be made to understand why certain articles in the china closet should have certain places. As for instance the closet in our house had shelves way down to the floor and he insisted on placing the silverware on the lowest shelf and then stepping into it. He had been talked to and threatened with punishment, and every time he'd promise to do better. One morning as usual the spoons, knives, etc., were found in the old place, and the look of perfect astonishment on his face would have immortalized a painter could he have caught it, as he threw up his hands and rolling up his eyes, said in the most tragic manner:

“I clar to goodness, Missie, I neber know how dey cum dar--dey must have walked down all by demselves!”

He {303}went to market every day with his mistress, to show her how to select, as he confidentially informed his companions---“Yer see she's only a chile, not far frum my age (he was sixteen, she was nineteen) and isn't 'sperienced in de tricks of dem ar market folks, so I goes along and helps her.”

We had been teasing for a dish of roast goose for a long time, so Percy and his mistress started just after breakfast and made a tour of the stalls. She selected a huge, but plump-looking white fowl, whose snowy feathers attracted her attention. She was quite ready to accept Percy's assurance that “dat ar fowl will make seberal good meals.” The bird was purchased, and Percy slung it over his shoulder, while it squawked most horribly as mistress and boy went down the length of the market, greeted at every step by the grinning colored folks, who wished them “good luck wid dat ar young bird!” while some were anxious to know “whar yo' get dat snow bird, honey?” accompanied with many fervent hopes that it would “eat like cream.” When the fowl reached the home of Percy's mistress, she nearly died with chagrin to find that what she preferred for its snowy plumage, thinking it an evidence of youth and beauty, proved to be a gander whose tough old skin Charlie assured her no amount of heat could penetrate. So when she slyly opened the gate, and bade him wander forth, he did so without delay.

Percy pretended much sympathy for her discomfiture, but she lost faith in all humanity after the goose episode, and deputed the marketing to her brother and the boy, who kindly relieved her.

But Percy was not entirely a trifler, as a few weeks after proved. One night when all were sleeping and the night was full of beauty, a little flame, so fine it was scarce observable, shot up into the room where the master and mistress reposed. It grew larger, as it danced across the floor, and curled up over the windows, drawn by the night breeze that played there. Now it seized the curtains of the bed, and still they knew nothing of the danger. And now the flames burst forth, lighting up the whole room, A feeling of suffocation, a frightened cry, and they awake, {304}but the smoke is thick and lurid, they are blinded and dazed. Where is the window--how can they find the door? They are silent from fear, while the flames leap nearer and nearer.

“Ise here--doncher be feared! Percy's here to sabe you bof,” and in the boy springs, and seizing Allie by the arm, he calls to her husband to follow close after him. He dashes to the window; he steps upon a ladder, and half-carrying her down, he shouts words of cheer to Charlie, who waits till they have reached the ground, when he takes to the ladder, and follows in safety.

Looking up, they see the room one mass of fire, and they know that they owe their lives to the watchful care of the black boy who had been only the subject for mirth and ridicule in their little home.

They were grieved indeed, when, a week later he came to the friend's house where they had found shelter, and after much scraping and bowing, he told them he wanted to “gage in anoder business--shining gemmen's shoes.” They tried to persuade him that it was a precarious occupation, and rather uncertain of returns, but there was an independence about it that Percy craved. So they had to bid the boy good-bye, but the generous donation which Charlie and Harry gave him to “set him up in business,” made his eyes shine and his teeth glisten, as he “fanked dem, and wished 'em luck.”

CONFEDERATE CEMETERIES

ANY {305}are the monuments that have been erected in Richmond, Virginia, through the liberality of her citizens. That city has paid particular attention to her brave boys who fell in battle, and her cemeteries are very beautifully laid out. The word cemetery is from the Greek, and means a “sleeping-place.” There, indeed, do those who laid down their lives sleep in peace, and it is the pride and pleasure of the living to beautify their last home. National cemeteries were first provided for by our government on July 17, 1862, and the noble provision has been carried out in all the States, both North and South.

Oakwood cemetery, Richmond, contains 16,000 dead Confederate soldiers. Libby Hill has a towering granite column, of great beauty, dedicated to all the soldier and sailor dead of the Confederacy--a beautiful memorial.

The cemetery of Hollywood is particularly distinguished for being the resting-places of Generals Stuart, Pickett, and Maury. Each grave has a tasty monument erected over it to tell who slumbers beneath. This cemetery has ninety-five acres, and was established in 1847. There are 12,000 Confederate soldiers in this picturesque burying-ground, and a granite pyramid has been raised to their memory.

All {306}civilizations have respected and cared for their dead. Even the Indian decorates the graves of his people, and watches that they may lie undisturbed. He places the weapons of the chase in the grave that they may take them to the Happy Hunting Ground with them.

While Richmond has several cemeteries wherein her soldiers lie, it is noticeable for the statues of her heroes also. General William C. Wickham's statue adorns Monroe Park. One of the finest streets, Franklin, has a statue of General Robert E. Lee and General A. P. Hill, General “Jeb” Stuart, and President Jefferson Davis are also remembered.

In the eighty-three National cemeteries established by the United States, and containing 330,700 soldiers, 9,438 wore the gray.

“There is a tear for all that die,

A mourner o'er the humblest grave;

But nations swell the funeral cry

And freedom weeps above the brave.”

In the cemetery at Beaufort, South Carolina, all feelings of distinction are swept away, and yearly, on Memorial Day, the noble-hearted women of that town direct their steps toward the graves and place flowers upon all--those who wore the blue and those who wore the gray, alike appealing to their womanly sympathy, and sharing alike their tender care.

On October 23, 1866, a fine and spacious cemetery was dedicated at Winchester, Virginia, with most imposing ceremonies. This abode of the dead is known as the Stonewall Jackson cemetery, in honor of that brave and true-hearted soldier.