the brigade under command of Gen. J. B. Carr,
of Troy, N. Y., stands a little one-story house,
which at the time of the battle was occupied by a
Mrs. Rogers and her (adopted) daughter. On the
morning of July 2, Gen. Carrstopped at the house
and found the daughter, a girl about eighteen
years of age, alone, busily engaged in baking
bread. He informed her that a great battle was
inevitable, and advised her to seek a place of
safety at once. She said she had a batch of bread
baking in the oven, and she would remain until it
was baked and then leave. When her bread was
baked it was given to our soldiers, and devoured
so eagerly that she concluded to remain and bake
another batch. And so she continued to the
end of• the battle, baking • and giving her
bread to all who came. The great artillery duel,
which shook the earth for miles around did not
drive her from her oven. Pickett's men, who
had charged past her house, found her quietly
baking her bread and distributing it to the hun
gry, When the battle was over her house was
found to be riddled with shot and shell, and sev•
enteen dead bodies were taken from the house
and cellar, the bodies of wounded men who had
crawled to the little dwelling for shelter. Twen
ty years after the close of the war, Gen. Can's
men and others held a grand reunion at Gettys
burg, and learning that Josephine Rogers (Miller).
was still living, but had married and taken up her
residence in Ohio, they sent for her, paid her
passage from her home to Gettysburg and back,
and had her go to her old home and tell them the
story they all knew so well. They decorated. her
with a score of army badges, and sent her back a
happy woman. Why should not the poet immor
talize Josephine Rogers (Miller) as he did Bar
bara Fritchie?
The war-elond Is gath'ring o'er Gettysburg vale,
Portending hoarse thunder and death-dealing hail ;
The solid earth trembles, and rent is the air,
With the rushing of squadrons,—the loud trumpet's
blare,
The clanking of arms, and the shouting of men,
And the neighing of steeds from each echoing glen ;
But unheeding the din and unhindered by dread
Josephine Miller is baking her bread.
THE FREE LANCE.
Graduation is the time when the winner of the
sheepskin plunges into the fray, determined to
achieve greatness, and be President of the United
States, or even better, of the standard Oil Com
pany, before he is thirty-five. It is safe to prophe
sy that most of these self confident young gentle
men will drop quietly into some of the common
grooves of life, and forty years hence, join the
great majority with a respectable, if not remarka
ble record.
But let each one remember that statistics show
that the college graduate's chance for success is
two hundred and fifty times that of his associates
who have not been blessed with a collegiate edu
cation. President Timing of Adelbert college
has examined the fifteen thousand names in Ap-
Now the battle is on and they warn her away,
For her cottage it stands in the sweep of the fray ;
They say 'twill be shattered by shot and by shell
But she answers by quenching their thirst from the
well,
And breaking her bread for the blue coated men,
And heating her oven and baking again,—
Alone in the house whence the owner has fled
Josephine Miller is baking her bread.
She hears on the roof bullets patter like rain—
Bombs burst in the road and the dooryard. The slain
By scores and by hundreds on every hand lie—
The wounded crawl into the cellar to die.
With her cup of relief she is here, she is there ;
No ory is unheard, but with tenderness rare,
Alone, all alone with the dying and dead,
Josephine watches while baking her bread.
All through the long night and the long weary day
She nurses the wounded, the blue and the gray ;
And their tears silent fall,—tor sweet visions of home
And of faces beloved to each soldier will come
When the maiden draws nigh. And the dying rejoice
In the touch of her hand and the sound of her voice,
And pray for a blessing to rest on the head
Of Josephine Miller while baking her bread.
How wildlyscamer the tempest may sweep
In its pitiless wrath o'er land and the deep,
There's a centre of calm where the bird may find refit
Secure from alarm as in sheltering nest :
So there mid the storm of demoniac war,—
Of passion and hate raging frantic and far,—
A gleam of old Bethlehem's glory is shed
Where Josephine Miller is baking her bread.
EDGAR FOSTER DAVIS.
all BONO?