CHAPTER XX. THE SURRENDER.

[Illustration: 9243]

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}

[Illustration: 0245]

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.

[Illustration: 9246]

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.

[Illustration: 0247]

{239}

[Illustration: 0248]

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}

[Illustration: 0250]

“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.”

[Illustration: 0251]

“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}

[Illustration: 0254]

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}

[Illustration: 0258]

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.

[Illustration: 9260]

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.

[Illustration: 8262]

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.

[Illustration: 9261]

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}

[Illustration: 0262]

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.

[Illustration: 8263]

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}

[Illustration: 0264]

[Illustration: 8265]

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.”

[Illustration: 9265]

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.

[Illustration: 0266]

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.

[Illustration: 0267]

{259}

[Illustration: 0268]

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.

[Illustration: 0269]

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}

[Illustration: 0271]

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.

[Illustration: 9274]

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.

[Illustration: 0277]

THE LITTLE BLACK COW.

AN INCIDENT OF THE WAR.

[Illustration: 9278]

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}

[Illustration: 0286]

A WAR STORY.

[Illustration: 9287]

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.

[Illustration: 9300]

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.

[Illustration: 9301]

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.

[Illustration: 0302]

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.

[Illustration: 9303]

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.

[Illustration: 8304]

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.

[Illustration: 9306]

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}

[Illustration: 0307]

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.

[Illustration: 9309]

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}

[Illustration: 0310]

“'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.”

[Illustration: 0313]

CONFEDERATE CEMETERIES

[Illustration: 9314]

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.

[Illustration: 0316]

PART II. UNDER BOTH FLAGS.

[Illustration: 9316]

NUMBER {307}of years have gone by since the scenes told of in the first

part of our book were enacted by the boy, whose interest has never

wavered, and whose heart is as young as it was in that day. The scars

of battle are tenderly smoothed away by the softening touch of time, and

the blue and the gray are no more arrayed against each other, but stand

shoulder to shoulder, eager to draw the sword, if need be, in defence of

their beloved land and her institutions. The grassy mound and towering

monument each tells its tale of the heroes who slumber beneath, and who

are alike worthy of unstinted praise.

Our late war with a foreign power has proven the loyalty of Americans in

every corner of our republic, and how earnestly the men of those days,

from North and South, have come forward to fight the battles of their

country--one, forevermore. Valuable services have been rendered by many

of those who were the leaders of those days, in that sad conflict,

and whose names have ever been renowned for courage, earnestness and

bravery.

We are, as a nation, making history fast, and in a book written {308}for

young people, it seemed proper to give them a few brief sketches of

those whose names were prominently identified with the war of 1861.

The boy who told his simple story is no longer a boy, but his pride and

rejoicing are as hearty as if the “dew of youth” sat upon him yet, and

in reviewing the lives of those who can truly be called great, and gone

to their final reward, one of the first whose claims are strong.

ULYSSES S. GRANT.

General Grant's career was so extraordinarily brilliant, and was

compressed into so short a time that it stands almost alone as one of

the most astonishing succession of events.

His birthplace was Point Pleasant, Ohio. Here on the 27th of April,

1822, the future general was born. When he was but a year old his

parents moved to Georgetown, where he grew into a sturdy, quiet lad,

showing no particular smartness any more than the average boy. Indeed,

he was rather dull, learning rather slowly, and with difficulty.

There were no free schools when he was a boy. These institutions

were supported by subscription, and one teacher had charge of all the

pupils--from the primer class to the big boy or girl of eighteen.

General Grant never saw an algebra nor any mathematical work until he

went to West Point. He had a great fondness for horses, and was never so

happy as when he could be with them. He was an excellent judge of them.

When he was but seven he drove his father's horses, hauling all the wood

used in the house and shops. When he was fifteen he made a horse trade

with a Mr. Payne, at Flat Rock, Kentucky, where he was visiting.

The brother of this gentleman was to accompany young Grant back to

Georgetown. The boy was told that the horse had never had a collar on

(it was a saddle horse), but he hitched it up, and started to drive the

seventy miles with a strange animal. The horse ran and kicked, and made

the companion horse frightened, and Ulysses stopped them right on the

edge of an embankment twenty {309}feet deep. Every time he would start,

the new horse would kick and run, until Mr. Payne, who was thoroughly

frightened, would not proceed any further in his company, but took

passage in a freight wagon. The boy was left alone, but with that

faculty for surmounting difficulties which distinguished him in after

life, a happy thought struck him--he took out his bandana, a huge

handkerchief much used then, and blindfolded the creature, driving

him quietly to the house of his uncle in Maysville, where he borrowed

another horse.

[Illustration: 8318]

A laughable incident occurred when he was eight. He saw a colt which he

very much coveted, and for which the owner demanded $25. General Grant's

father said he would give $20. The boy was so anxious to possess the

colt that his father yielded, giving him instructions how to make the

bargain. Going to the owner the boy said: “Papa says I may offer you $20

for the colt, but if you won't take that I am to offer $22.50, and if

you won't take that, to give you $25.” It is needless to say what he had

to pay for the colt.

The elder Grant was not poor in the usual sense of the term--on the

contrary, he was quite well situated for the time and place.

Ulysses was sent to West Point at seventeen; he was quite apt in

mathematics, but had no love for military tactics, and resolved {310}not

to stay in the army, even if he graduated. He was not brilliant in his

class here, either--he says himself that had “the class been turned the

other end foremost, I should have been near the head.” He graduated four

years after his entrance, No. 21 in a class of thirty-nine.

[Illustration: 9319]

It was feared at that time that he had the consumption, for he had a bad

cough, but his outdoor life entirely removed it.

His real name was Hiram Ulysses Grant, but some one made a blunder in

making out the document appointing him a cadet, and as U. S. Grant he

will be known always.

On graduation he was breveted Second Lieutenant of Infantry, and placed

in the Fourth Regiment, which was sent to the frontier. But two years

went by, ere he was sent to Texas to join General Taylor's army, and

here he became a full lieutenant. He was made quartermaster of his

regiment early in 1847, after showing great valor in the battles of Palo

Alto, Resaca, Monterey, and the siege of Vera Cruz. He participated in

all of the engagements, and was promoted on the field of Molino del Rey

for his bravery. A few days after an exhibition of the same quality won

him special notice and praise from his brigade commander.

When {311}the Mexican War was over, he was stationed at: Sackett's

Harbor, New York. He had long been attached to Miss Julia Dent, the

sister of one of his classmates, and August 22, 1848, she became his

wife.

[Illustration: 0320]

Four years later he went with his regiment to California and Oregon,

where he became captain. The summer of 1854 saw, apparently, an end to

his military career, for he resigned his commission and tried to work a

small farm near St. Louis, and attend to real estate in the city. He was

{312}not intended for either vocation. Greater things were in store

for him, and, disheartened at his poor success, he went to work for his

father, as clerk in his store--the leather trade, in Galena, Illinois.

At the first sound of war he offered his services to the government, and

marched to Springfield at the head of a company. Governor Yates placed

him on his staff, and made him mustering officer of all the volunteers

from Illinois, but in June he was made colonel of the Twenty-first

Regiment, which he had organized and drilled himself. Needing cars

to transport it to a distant point, he was told they could not be

furnished. So little a matter as that did not annoy him, but with that

directness and energy which always marked his movements, he astonished

the authorities by marching the entire regiment to the desired place.

In August he was promoted, becoming brigadier-general, and assuming

command of all troops at Cairo. From this hour his successes were great,

and have become matters of history. He was the idol of the army, and the

surprise of the country, which gave him the popular name which seems to

fit him so well--Unconditional Surrender Grant.

After the siege of Vicksburg and the defeat of General Bragg, it became

plain to the government that one great mind should control all the

forces, and General Grant was declared commander of the entire armies of

the Union, early in 1864.

It was then that President Lincoln and General Grant met for the first

time--a meeting between two great men. The commission of full general

was bestowed upon Grant in July, 1866, this title being created

especially for him. From August, 1867, to January, 1868, he was really

Secretary of War, on account of the trouble between President Johnson

and Secretary Stanton. He received the nomination for President, in May,

1868, at the hands of the Republican convention which met in Chicago,

and was elected by an overwhelming majority. He was reelected to a

second term and at its close he made a tour of the world, with his wife.

He was received with unbounded enthusiasm everywhere.

In 1881 he {313}bought a house in New York City, which he made a home in

the fullest sense, for his family and himself. On Christmas Eve, 1883,

he slipped on the sidewalk, and injured himself so badly that he had

to use crutches ever after. Becoming partner in a banking house, he was

robbed of all he had by his associates in business and had to turn his

attention to literary work, furnishing the _Century_ with some articles.

Being solicited to give his experiences, he wrote his “Memoirs,” which

he indited while suffering great anguish, and which he finished four

days before his death. His wife received for the two volumes from his

pen $400,000 as royalty.

The hero of many battles, the grand soldier, was doomed. In 1884 a

trouble in his throat developed into a cancer, and for nearly a year he

endured intense agony, never murmuring, but working on, that he might

place those he so dearly loved beyond want.

On July 23, 1885, he died, in a cottage at Mt. McGregor, near Saratoga,

New York--a man whom the world is better for having known.

JAMES ABRAM GARFIELD.

Few boys have risen from such humble surroundings to the highest gift

of a great nation, as did the twentieth President of the United States,

James A. Garfield. His boyhood's home was a simple cabin in the woods of

Ohio, unbroken save by the few settlers who hewed the trees and made

a clearing for a home. His father was one of these pioneers, and the

future President of our great Republic was a genuine farmer's boy,

and knew how to do all the hard work upon a farm. He chopped wood, and

helped care for the few acres they called their farm. They did not live

in luxury, for they had no means to squander. Living on the plainest

fare, wild game and corn, or wheat cracked or pounded in a mortar,

performing the hardest labor, the boy's strength grew, until he became a

hardy, robust lad, the pride of his beloved parents.

{314}

[Illustration: 0323]

He {315}never had much schooling, as it was only three months each

winter that his parents could send him to the district school, but most

excellent use he made of his scant opportunities. At fourteen he was

apprenticed to a carpenter, and three years later he worked on the

canal. When he was a mere lad, he longed to be a sailor, but he fell

sick, and after that he never seemed to long for the sea.

[Illustration: 8324]

The little village of Orange, Ohio, where he was born on the nineteenth

of November, 1831, was soon to see him no more as a resident, for in

March, 1849, he left home and entered Geauga Seminary at Chester, and

soon was fitted to teach a district school. But he had to work at his

trade (the carpenter's) to help pay his way, his mother not being able

to assist him, save by a loan of $17.00 which she furnished him the

first term that he was there. Every morning and evening, and Saturdays,

as well as his entire summer vacation, he spent in labor at the bench.

The next three years he passed in the Eclectic Institute at Hiram, and

here his finances still continuing low, he willingly acted as student

and janitor, and afterward as student and teacher. He was unable to

earn enough to pay for his tuition at William's College, and although

he practised the closest economy, when he graduated he owed that

institution $500, a debt which he afterward faithfully discharged.

He accepted the Professorship of Ancient Languages and Literature in

Hiram College, at twenty-six becoming its president, which he continued

to be until he entered the army in 1861.

In 1858 he married Lucretia Rudolph, who was a teacher, and a very

cultivated woman, who proved a valuable companion in his literary

career. He had studied law while President of the college, and was

admitted to practice in the Supreme Court cf the United States in 1866.

His {316}military services were large and valuable. He was an authority

upon American finances. He held many important positions and was honored

by all his colleagues. He was made an honorary member of the celebrated

Cobden Club of England.

[Illustration: 0325]

He made many able speeches in Congress, and was elected to the

Thirty-eighth Congress in 1863, and reelected successively {317}to

the Thirty-ninth, Fortieth, Forty-first, Forty-second, Forty-third,

Forty-fourth, Forty-fifth and Forty-sixth Congresses.

The year 1880 was an important one to James A. Garfield, for in January

he was elected by the Ohio Legislature Senator for the term beginning

March 4, 1881, to succeed Allen G. Thurman. But on the 8th of June

a still greater honor was shown him by the Chicago convention, which

nominated him for president, and the November election showed him to be

the choice of the people.

His public life was destined to be a short one, for on the morning of

July 2, 1881, with bright expectations of a pleasant trip to New

York and the White Mountains with his wife and several members of the

Cabinet, he started from the White House for the Baltimore and Potomac

station. As Secretary Blaine and he entered the station, arm in arm,

they passed through the ladies' waiting-room. As they walked briskly

on, two pistol shots were fired in quick succession, one of which took

effect in the President's back. He sank to the floor, but was conscious.

Dr. Bliss was summoned, and took charge of the case, but he named three

other surgeons as assistants. Later two very celebrated physicians were

added to the list of medical advisers. Their united opinion was that the

ball had grazed the liver, and lodged in the front wall of the abdomen,

but that it was not necessarily fatal. Still they did not deem it wise

to extract it.

The assassin who struck down a good man, was Charles J. Guiteau, a

crazy, disappointed office-seeker. After suffering for weeks, and

fluctuating between hope of recovery and unfavorable symptoms, he died

at Elberon Park, New Jersey, whither he had been removed on the 19th of

September, 1881.

His life, with its early struggles, is a lesson to the boys of this

age, to show them what great possibilities are within the reach of an

American citizen.

EVENTS FOLLOWING THE CIVIL WAR.

THE ATLANTIC CABLE.

[Illustration: 9327]

ARLY {318}in October, 1851, the first effort at laying a cable for a

submarine telegraph was begun by the United States brig Dolphin, which

carried a line of soundings across the Atlantic. At that time there were

but eighty-seven nautical miles of submarine cable laid, while now there

are nearly 200,000 statute miles. Some of these cables merely connect

islands with the main shore, others are thousands of miles long. A cable

is laid so far below the surface that neither storms, tides or currents

can disturb it. But the ends touching the shore are made much stronger

and heavier, so that the waves will not impair them, and in some cases,

near landings, they are heavily weighted to keep them in place--a thing

it is not necessary to do in deep water.

In 1854 Cyrus W. Field obtained a charter for laying a cable, and when

the first attempt was made at Kerry, Ireland, in 1857, the occasion was

made a very brilliant affair. It was honored by the presence of a vast

squadron of British and American ships of war. Representatives of many

nations were there, as well as the directors of the Atlantic Telegraph

Company, and most of the magnates of the English railroads. It was a

momentous undertaking, but after laying 335 miles of cable, and causing

the heart of its projectors to beat high with hope, {319}the strands

suddenly parted, and their hopes were crushed.

The next year another expedition was commenced, which ended in a similar

failure. But nothing could dampen the ardor of its friends, and on the

16th of August of the same year another cable was successfully laid,

and on the 17th Queen Victoria sent the President of the United

States congratulations upon the successful termination of this great

international work, to which Mr. Buchanan returned the courteous

wish that the cable might “prove to be a bond of perpetual peace and

friendship between the kindred nations.” The two continents held great

rejoicings, but disappointment was again their portion, for about the

1st of September the cable throbbed no more.

In 1865 a further attempt was made, and after 1,200 miles had been laid,

the cable broke again. So grand an undertaking was not to be given up

lightly. Mr. Field's perseverance was unconquerable. A strong, flexible

cable was shipped on board the “Great Eastern,” and on the 13th of July,

1866, this gigantic boat started from Valentia, Ireland, and two weeks

later it “glided calmly into Heart's Content, Newfoundland, dropping

her anchor in front of the telegraph house, having trailed behind her

a chain of 2,000 miles, to bind the Old World to the New.” It then went

back to the mid-Atlantic, grappled the end of the broken cable of 1865,

a splice was made, and the line was continued to Newfoundland by the

side of the other. These lines have never failed to work. The cable

having thus become a fact, the world was astonished and gratified. Mr.

Field had worked heroically, and by our own land, by England and by

France he was enthusiastically praised. The first message which passed

over this line was a worthy one--the announcement of the treaty of peace

between Prussia and Austria.

The charges for telegraphing were formerly very high, twenty pounds for

a short message being asked, but as rival companies began to spring up,

competition reduced the price considerably.

Marine cables have multiplied so fast that where there was originally

but one or two, there are now eight, owned and operated {320}at a vast

benefit to the entire world with which we are in communication. The

events occurring in the most distant climes are brought to our doors

through this medium so perfect is the system. Cyrus W. Field received

a gold medal from Congress in recognition of his services, and the

gratitude of the world, as well.

ALASKA

|Few can realize the magnitude of this far Northwest territory. To most

boys and girls it seems a cold, barren, desolate country, a perpetual

scene of ice-bound rivers and frost and snow the whole year round, with

nothing growing. When Secretary Seward accomplished the purchase of this

vast tract of land from Russia, he showed great wisdom and foresight. No

wonder that, in view of its immense size and valuable resources, he

declared the conclusion of this affair the crowning triumph of his life.

[Illustration: 9329]

Russia had been anxious to sell for a long time, but many feared that

she had drained all the value from the territory, and wanted to get rid

of it. There was bitter opposition in the United States to the plan of

buying what every one considered would prove but “a field of ice and a

sea of mountains.”

We want to tell the young folks how great a mistake these sort of

reasoners labored under, and how we came to be the fortunate buyers of

this vast stretch of land.

Many years ago a party of American explorers conceived the idea of

establishing a telegraph between our country and Asia, and they went to

Alaska for this purpose. Fancy their surprise when they saw what they

had supposed was a desert waste, producing the largest pine and cedar

trees in the whole world, and the most extensive seal-fisheries, with

here and there a town, with {321}its churches and buildings. They at

once saw how rich it was in natural advantages, and they became

very anxious that our government should confer with Russia as to its

purchase. They presented good reasons for this desire to Congress, and

Secretary Seward saw at once what an acquisition it would be to us, in

many ways. So in March, 1867, the treaty between our country and

Russia looking to its sale was ratified. It had at that time a native

population of 60,000, and since we have come into possession of it,

the United States Commissioner of Education has started schools and

appointed teachers to care for the education of the young. There are now

twenty-four of these schools in the different settlements, two of them

in Sitka and a manual training school has been organized here also,

where they receive instruction in the various trades. This school must

be very popular, for it has a large attendance for a small city like

Sitka, it numbering over 200 pupils on its list.

The chief city, or capital, is Sitka, very romantically situated on

the shore, while high mountains rise behind it, forming a beautiful

background for the streets and dwellings. It is an old-fashioned, quiet

place, when compared with bustling American towns, but it boasts a

lively weekly paper, and the Russo-Greek church has a good edifice

there, showing that the religious education of its people has not been

forgotten. The harbor is very beautiful, being deep, and affording safe

shelter for vessels.

The purchase of this territory has extended our northern boundary from

the 49th to the 71st parallel, and added to our growth westward by sixty

degrees of longitude. It can boast of the highest mountain in America,

Mt. St. Elias, which rises 14,000 feet above the sea. The magnificent

Yukon river runs through the territory, and steamers of light draft can

sail on its waters for 1,500 miles. We have gained 600,000 square miles,

and this vast area really cost our government the trifling sum of two

cents an acre, the sum paid Russia being $7,200,000. It would require

thirteen of our States to equal its extent. As a writer jovially

remarked, “It is a gilt-edged real estate investment.”

The {322}climate is quite endurable. The winters in the northern portion

are excessively severe, but on the southwest coast it is warmer at that

season than either Maine or Dakota.