¢ | died at her home ELLA WHEELER WILCOX MEMORIAL DAY - SENTIMENTS. What Some Well Known People Say. A BEAUTIFUL NATIONAL OUSTOM. Views of Ella Wheeler Wilcox—Thoughts’ of Professor John Clark Ridpath and Ex-Senator Ingalls — Commodore Mel- ville and Colonel Forney on Our Heroic Dead. : {Copyright,- 1897.) It would be unbecoming to enlarge on the subject of Memorial day without paying some introductory tribute to its founder. Very few indeed attribute the beautiful national custom of decorating the graves of the heroes of the civil war to a woman, Mrs. Martha G. Kimball, a soldier in the war herself, for she followed it from its beginning to its close, nursed the wounded soldiers and perfected the hospital service in General Sherman’s army, and, in fact, watched over the Union soldiers like a mother. Two short incidents display more. of Mrs. Kimball’s character than pages of eulogy: ‘‘A boy was sentenced to be shot. His mother sat on the steps of the capitol in Washington. She remained there dis- tracted with grief for three days and nights trying in vain to see President . Lincoln. A lady, beautiful and of lov- ing disposition, passing in front of the capitol, paused to learn the pitiful story, and then, with the determination of that viking race from which she sprang, sought and pleaded the poor mother’s: cause with the president himself. Lin- coln hearkened to her eloquence, and turning his sad eyes on her said: ‘Take this card to Stauton and save the boy and mother. It is a relief to have you tell me how you would manage the af- fairs of state.’ ’’ ‘“The battle of Winchester was over, the condition of General Molaeur' ~command demoralized, so’ &s to bring ~on this officer in the presence of his men a sharp reproof from Sheridan. A lady, beautiful and of loving disposition, ‘had nursed General Molineux after he thad been wonnded in a previous battle ‘in the performance of a brave duty. She addressed General Sheridan thus: ‘You LN ANA I | 0 ek \ Ts ) Wr iN EE = \ . CATIA sean Sm on 7. y Cases et - ‘Madam, if I have done so, I will apol- ; . he supplemented this act of gallantry | a major generalship.’’ | of those who had died in the cause of | the Confederacy. She thought of the 3 | weed strewn, neglected ¥ | brave boys who fell fightfg in the blue ' and wrote to General John A. Logan, | then commander in chief of the Grand | miration and requested example of thosa { southern women. | the sympathy | on the 80th of Jf 3 May, 1868, es- =, tablishing Me- morial day. Mrs. ¢ 7 Kimball, who ey > have done a great wrong to a brave man.’ The hero of Winchester replied, ogize to him before his soldiers.” And’ by recommending General Molineux for The lady was Mrs. Kimball. , It was while she was traveling in the south that she noticed how assiduously the southern women garlanded the graves mounds over the Her eloquent pleading enlisted and co-operation of General Lo- gan and resulted in the famous or- der No. 2 that went into effect in the Quaker City some three years ago, ‘now lies at Laurel Hill. A little mound, a simple headstone and a huge Norwegian pine mark the spot where the founder of a great national custom lies buried. The lines that follow were mailed to me by Ella Wheeler Wilcox in response to my request for some original remarks on the subject of our national observance of May 80. It is evident that this popu- lar poet takes a serious view of the pres- ent situation and does not hesitate to express her’ feelings as forcibly as she: does poetically: Our country’s starving children plead for la- : fo no work to give them. Yet, behold! She ig the swarming offspring of her neigh r a While*her own kin stand roofless in the cold. Not for such ends the heroes whom we honor Preserved our country in her strength and pride. So many and so dark the stains upon her, Well might the warrior question why he died. ELLA WHEELER WILCOX. In response to my next call came the following hopeful paragraphs from Commodore Melville, an old soldier, the chief in the United States bureau of steam engineering in the navy depart- ment at Washington. In addition he can lay claim to being a celebrated arctic explorer and the designer of more than one of our late war vessels: Decoration day, the day of all the year that is given to the highest and holiest ceremony that the living can pay to the dead—the dead, the heroic dead, the brave souls, the light and life of the fairest and bravest, who with youth and beauty in the dark days of 1861 bared their fair young breasts to the storm of shot and shell and stood between the devastat- ing hosts of iconoclasts and the only true gov- ernment that God has permitted to be on the face of the earth! Weave wreaths and garlands, ye fair maids of America, to decorate the tombs of the heroic dead, who died to save-our fair land. Weep not, but rejoice that your brothers and lovers have left behind them in their somber tombs the evidence that our country was worth sav- ing—aye, dying for—and that the example is set forth for coming generations for all time that the spirit of 1776 and 1881 is still abroad in our land and will never die. GEORGE W. MELVILLE, Engineer In Chief United Statgs Navy. Professor John Clark Ridpath writes me on the subject from the scene of his editorial labors on The Arena. The his- torian challenges thought on the after life and embodies sentiment on a na- tional memory in this short but admira- ble essay: OUR DEAD. Where, after all, are our brave dead? The traditional belici of the world has been that they live. But very vague faith is the faith of mankind with respect to where the departed dwell or in what state. On this theme conjecture has been rife in all ages, Cer tain it is that hu- man beings have never been. content to die without a hope. Of all the argm- ments that have been presented on . this subject that of Henry Thomas Buckle is the best. His own mother passed away. He was at that time composing his review of ‘‘Mill’s Essay on Liberty.” The shock to the great historian and thinker was almost unbearable, but he rallied and inserted in the essay which he was eom posing that remarkable paragraph on the sur vival of the dead as he was able to see it and hope for it. Buckle’s argument is this: There is in hu man affection and desire an equation the first part of which is here and the other part of which is—where? That is his great thesis re- duced to a syllogistic suggestion. He alleges what is true—that life without the after half of the equation of hope and desire is a reduc tio ad absurdum. Our brave dead who went from us in the flory ordeal of war either exist or they have ceased to exist. There is no middle ground. The broken equation of hope and affection in- dicates their existence beyond that dividing curtain which the poetical language of man- kind has called ‘‘the veil.”” We choose to be- lieve, or at least to think, that our herowus are living somewhere in a happy fruition of patri- otic joys, unclouded with sorrow, unacquaint- ed with further pain and anguish. We say of them, ‘‘They sleep.” Rather let us say of them, ‘‘They wake." If immortality be a dream, it is indeed a generous and beautiful dream, tending ever to make itself more real as the end of life ap- proaches. ' : + ‘f.ittle are we disposed to yield to enthusiasm JOHN CLARK RIDPATH. | tract was oathed by the spirits in blue amid that our heroes of the Union war are not dead, that they are not sleeping, but that they are both living and free; that they go forth and know and rest and love and aspire. Happy were we to be sure that they are able to un- . clasp the brazen volume of the Backward Look and to see in ourselves and our work the hap- py results and beautiful hopes and joys which they so unselfishly procured and consecrated | by their life and death. JOHN CLARKE RIDPATH, Boston. Editor of The Arena. Major Green Clay Goodloe, paymas- ter in the marine corps at headquarters, Washington, a Kentuckian by birth, who served in the Kentucky cavalry in the early part of the civil war, makes the following response: The bright and beautiful page in our repub- lic's illustrious history is the thought that the dead were to live always in the hearts of the living, the survivors were to have honors with- out stint heaped upon them, the maimed should be tenderly and appropriately cared for, as the dust of their fallen husbands and fathers woald be vigilantly guarded. This con- the flash of battle and steel, and so long as a drop of loyal blood circulates their memories and nobility will be shielded as the mother guards her offspring. Had not the patriotism of the blood of the land gone forth to battle, ‘liberty would have slept forever in our land and the Union been interred. The Union lives, and the winding sheet, brave Old Glory, com- forts her heroes in the tomb of the Union. GREEN CLAY GOODLOE. From the west Mr. Ingalls sends me the accompanying letter symbolic of his own sentiments on Memorial day mem- ories and observances: i Other wars have been waged for ambition, for a frontier, for a dynasty, for a throne, but no such passions impelied the soldiers of the republic. They fought for the supremacy of the moral code in politics, for the beatitudes in the commonwealth, for the Golden Rule as the foundation of government. Their death was a protest against the injustice of human destiny. JOHN JAMES INGALLS. Atchison, Kan. The sentiment printed below comes from Colonel James Forney, son of John Forney, the founder of the Philadelphia Press. As a lieutenant in the navy this contributor was brevetted captain for meritorious service—sent ashore by Ad- miral Farragut in 1862 to hoist the first Union flag on the custom house at New Orleans and bring away the Confederate banner: Memorial day is the most impressive of all our national holidays. On that day we throw away all care and go out and decorate the graves of those soldiers and sailors who fell in battle so that we might live to enjoy a free and great country.’ The scene is very pathetic, to see the old veterans, bending over with age, putting the flowers over the remains of their comrades. It would, however, be a much hap- pier and grander scene for the future if the north and south would join together, instead of having separate days. and make Decoration day sacred to the memory of both. This would indeed make it of all days one of the grandest in the history of the republic. JAMES FORNEY, Colonel United States Marine Corps. The following is sent me, fitly enough, by an author who comes of a soldier , family. Dr. Mc- Cook does not need identifica- tion as a natural- ist, one of the leading authori- ties of the world on American ants and. spiders and . the author of the popular ‘‘The Tenants of an Old Farm.’’ Dr. McCook of the E famous ‘‘Fight- JOHN JAMES INGALLS. ing McC ook’ family is the pastor of the Tabernacle Presbyterian churciv of Philadelphia and one of the most prominent men in the ministry. He writes as follows: In the midst of a great bittle an Indiana soldier was borne upon a stretcher to the rear, both thighs shot through by a shell. It so hap pened that he was carried by the point where his division commander stood direeting the conflict. ‘‘Stop, boys!’ lie cried. His bearers set hin down in front of the officer; who step ped to his side and spoke a word of pity and uttered a hope that he might soon be well. “Look at that,general, ’’ said:.the soldier, lifting a corner of the blanket thas covered his man- gled limbs. ‘*No, no; it's all up withme. No man can live after that. But that isnt what I want to say, general. I've a wife and five babies out there in Indians who won’ have a cent to keep them beyond the pension they will draw. And I love 'em, general, I love ‘em more than I know how tatell. But ¥d do it again, if I had it all to de. over nom, rather than see the Union destroyed. I've done my duty, and I’m not afraid tadie. Goodby, gen- eral. Now, boys, move on.” And thes carried him out of sigh?: - The eyes that followed the brave fellow for a moment were used to such scenes, but they were wet with tears just thon. No wonder grateful countrymen hallow the memory of these men and when the flowers of sprimg have gathered with their first fullmess hasten with loving hands to deck their graves. But there is no flower that exhales its sweetmess upon the hero's resting place so fragrant in our souls ns the deeds of suffering self sacrifice even unto death which. sompel our love and SOFTOW. HENRY C. McCoOK. What with war steries and tombstone morals the tenor of this collection would have been fittingly decorated with the rue had not a well known army man eome tc the rescwe by mailing me a question and an answer: ‘‘How should Memaerial (Decoration) day be kept?’ Having taken past in many a Decoration day parade and in nine cases out of ten with the result of being drenched to the skin with rains from a sympathetic but inconsiderate sky, 1 dave no hesitation in replying: - : Decoration day should be kept—dry. CHARLES KING, Captain United States Army. There $8 no need to identify Captain Charles King as an army.man, for there is scarce a novel reader in the country but has both laughed and cried over his storieg of army and garrison life. The gallant captain begs further to state, while on the subject of Decoration day, that the above question deserves a better suswer, but that it catches him at his the German, his voice trembling with 3p to chase shadows, but somehow we think — busiest moment. LILLIAN A. NORTH. MEMORIAL DAY. MAY 30, 1897. Softly the south wind comes from haunts afar "And brings its charm to waiting hills and vales, But now it is not redolent of war, Of grewsome horrors and heartbreaking tales. For peace, with her fair white uplifted wings, Reigns now unhindered east, west, north and south; The green spring turf unto the plowshare | clings, And cobwebs lace the brazen cannon’s . mouth. No more are serried hosts in battle drawn; No more are brothers matched in bloody strife. | The tragic, devastating war is gone, | And a new era dawns to stir the life Of this great nation, to uplift the race, To forward freedom, to enfranchise man, To give the lowliest a chance and place For each to do the very best hecan. Not in the realms of ancient Rome and Greece, Nor in the idyls of Utopia Can there be found or pictured states like these Or any power of such benignant sway. But this brave land sprang not at once, full born, Nor found its heritage without a price. Through battle’s blaze, through toil and hate and scorn, Our great republic had its glorious rise. Today we meet to honor those whose scars And death were given that freedom should not die— Heroes of dark, blood red and cruel wars, Who won for us the final victory. Bring from fair gardens and the mountain side Flowers for their graves touched with the south wind’s breath, That their blest deeds may in our hearts abide And honor crown their sacrificial death. Fling out the flag! Let speech and music flow! May grateful hearts pause and the wealth of May Be brought for tribute til! the whole world know ; ’ The sacred import of Memorial day. JOEL BENTON. A RAW RECRUIT. BY WILL M. CLEMENS, [Copyright, 1897, by Will M. Clomens.} In Sergeant Norton’s picket squad was one of the raw ones, a new recruit. Oberholtz was his name, and he looked it. Most young Germans are brave in the face of danger, and John Oberholtz was one of the majority. The night was as uncertain in a weath- er way as were the English words of Oberholtz, and as Fred Neston scurried along his picket line the cottonwood trees looked to him like a file of black giants. It was a shadowy, murky, som- ber might, this June evening, 1864, in the country round about Spettsylvania Court House. Sergeant Norton stopped shert in his lone march and put his hand to his ear. A stramge noise came from a ravine not far away where John Oberholtz was on duty. Less than two miles to the south were the Confederate lines, amd the young sergeant was fearful lest the gray sharpshooters would reduce the number of his picket squad. He ran toward the ravine as fast as the darkness would permit him and came rather unexpect- edly upon the young German standing motionless upon a knoll, his gun point- ed at some bushes a few feet distant. The hand of Oberholtz was upon the trigger of his gun, and his usually red face was ashen white. He was in the act of firing when the. sergeant called him. EN ‘‘Oberholtz, what is the trouble?’ questioned Norton sternly. ‘‘Der vas a rebel in der bushes, ”’ cried nxcitement. . ‘‘Put down your gun, ’’ whispered the sergeant as he came alongside the new THE HAND OF OBERHOLTZ WAS UPON THE TRIGGER. recruit. ‘‘Don’t shoot. If there is only one, we ean capture him. ’’ The German obeyed and brought his gun to the ground. Norton stepped forward a pace or two, having discerned a face and form in the anderbrush. He drew his revolver and advanced quickly. ‘‘Surrender, or I'll shoot!’ he. de- manded very earnestly. Scarcely had he said the words than he quickly put his revolver back in his belt and uttered a gasp of surprise. The frightened face of a young woman confronted him. He saw ber stagger as if about to fall, and, reaching forward, caught her by | the arm. She vainly tried to speak ta him and laid a trembling hand upon the arm of the sergeant. I ‘“You had a narrow escape, miss,” Norton said to her as the German re- cruit advanced to his.side. She looked at Oberholtz in alarm and again endeavored to speak, but .failed utterly. She nodded her head as if to indicate an affirmative reply. With his cap Norton fanned her pretty face while her body lay limp upon his arm. The night wind caused her brown hair to brush his cheek, and when her, blue eyes looked, full of an unknown fear, into his own he felt a thrill of ten- der sympathy within. “I feel so faint and so tired!” ul f whispered, at last recovering her voice. ‘“No wonder, young lady, ’’ said Nor- ton gallantly, and, pointing to Ober- holtz, he added: ‘“He might have shot you. Luckily I came along just as I id.” ‘I thank you, sir, so much, ’’ she re- plied, standing erect and by her move- ment declining the support of the sol- dier. She continued rather painfully, ‘‘Per- haps I did wrong in coming, but we were starving and’’—. Her voice faltered. . ! “Who? Where?'’ asked Norton anx- iously, eager for information. : “Over yonder,” she replied faintly, ‘father and I. We live half a mile from here between the lines of the two armies. My father is a Confederate offi- cer. Two days ago some of the Yankee soldiers came along and took everything we had in the house, and since then’’— She uttered a little sympathetic cough and went on. ‘“We have absolutely nothing to eat. My poor father took ' ill while at home | on a furlough and is now a helpless in- | yy LL | | | THEY STOOD TOGETHER IN THE CENTER OF | THE ROOM. valid. I could not leave him long | enough to go to the rebel camp, and the houses of our neighbors are deserted. I ventured up here to see if I couldn’t get just.enough food for father’s supper. He ise weak!”’, And, laying her trem- bling hand upon Norton’s arm, she pleaded; ‘‘Can’t you give us just a little food, sir?” There was a tear in the eye of the young sergeant as he bade her accom- | pany him to the brigadier’s quarters. She meekly followed hin, leaving Ober- holtz to resume his picket duty. Norton took her arm and helped her over the rough places along the way, meanwhile learning her name and other facts about herself and her family. To the brig@lier’s tent they went to- gether, and Norton introduced her as ‘‘Edith Madden, aged 17, the daughter of a Confederate. ’’ : He told the girl’s story in as few ' words asgpossible, the narrative receiv- ing the utmost attention from the court- ly old brigadier. He was a man of little speech, this brigadier, and when Nor- ton had finished he put his head on one side and looked critically at the girl and then at the sergeant. Then he seized pen and paper and wrote a few lines hur- riedly. ‘‘Here, orderly!” he shouted in his gruff voice. ‘Take this to the commis- sary. ”" Turning to Norton, he added: *‘Ser- geant, follow the orderly. Put the pro- visions in a"wagon. Load her up with crackers and coffee and sugar and such stuff.’ “Yes, sir,”’ replied Norton, saluting his superior. He started to leave the tent with the young woman at his side. ‘““And, sergeant!’ added the gruff voice. = Yes, 81” ; ‘‘Put enough in that wagon to last em for six months. ”’ **Yes, sir.” : ‘‘And, sergeant, take a file of men and accompany the wagon and this girl to her father’. house.’ ‘“Yes, sir.”” And Norton and.the girl stepped out into the night. In the course of an hour a wagon ereaking under its heavy load passed down the ravine where Oberholtz paced to and fro with his gun, and six soldiers marched upon either side of the wagon. Norton and his companion, the daugh- ter of the enemy, brought up in the rear. It was moonlight when the soldiers and the wagon returned, two hours later. Something delayed the young sergeant, for it waibtully an hour later when he came back to camp. There was a queer sort of smile upon his’ face and a strange happiness in his breast. The fol- lowing night Norton passed the guard, and for several hours he lingered in the country over nearer the enemy. He was reconnoitering,so he told the guard when he returned and gave the countersign. Another night and still another he went outside the lines, and one evening a week later he went again, this time taking with him two companions, Ober- holtz, the new recruit, and a white haired old soldier in a fugitive cap. As they walked along Norton chatted gleefully with the elderly man. ‘I thought I'd bring Oberholtz along . for luck. Ever since he came near kill- ing her he worships the very ground she walks on.. I feel grateful to him any- way. If he had not been a raw recruit and a German, this thing could never have happened.’’ The three men wearing the blue en- tered ar old house in the woods. An old man sitting inthroned in a rocking chair gave them kindly greeting. Sergeant Fred Norton took the hand of pretty Edith Madden, and they stood together in the center of the room. The white haired soldier, Chaplain Whit- taker, took from his pocket a leather covered volume, and there in the Vir- ginia woods, in the quiet of the summer night, Fred and Edith were made man and wife. : The Gray and the Blue. On the battlefield at Richmond, Ky., in 1862. a Confederate and Federal sol- dier were lying some distance apart. Both were prostrate from severe wounds. “I ar dying for water,’’ the boy in blue cried out in despair. ‘I have water in my canteen to which you are welcome, ’’ said the one in gray. “I couldn’t move to save my life,” groaned the wounded Federal: The Con- federate lifted his head and, looking over at his wounded foeman, called out in compassion, ‘‘ Hold on a little longer, Yank, and I'll come to you!’ By digging his hands into the ground the heroic southerner dragged himself to the side of the Federal, groaning every time he moved. After the sufferer had drunk eagerly the two clasped hands in token of buried hatred. The Confederate had overexerted himself and brought on a hemorrhage, from which he died in a short time. The boy in blue kissed again and again the cold hand that had brought him relief, when he was taken away to the hospital, where he died next day. .
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