ARLINGTON. Above the tide that seeks tha seh, Through groves of song and haunts of bee, A mighty camp in silence lies At even ‘neath the starlit skies; No sentries guard with stately tramp’ At dawn or dusk that sacred camp, Where peacefully, ‘neath shade and sun, Repose the brave of Arlington. Y Beneath the pine’s uplifted crest Sweet blossoms fall on many a breast; No roll of drum or fife so shrill Can wake the sleepers on the hill; Above the carpet Nature spreads O’er all the violets lift their heads, And once a day the sunset gun The soft leaves stir at Arlington. No thrilling dreams of war invade The camp deep in the cedar’s shade; No charge across the crimson plain | Could rouse the dead to life again, Beyond the river, flowing down Past ruined fort and ancient town, The Nation’s dome shines in the sun Which lights, at noonday, Arlington, £ ° O sacred bivouac ‘neath the rose! Thad Thy tenants rest secure from foes; = The fight that stirr’d their blood of yore Is a vision past forevermore; . And once a year the fragrant bloom Of May falls softly on each tomb. The land is peace, the victory won, O love-invested Arlington! —T. C. Harbaugh, SICIIOIK 3% N/ > NTR IRIE RHE time was the early autumn of 1863. Excitement ran high in the lit- tle town of Dun- ham—higher than it had risen at any previous time dur- ing the war. Even in April, 1861, when the thrilling news was wafted North that Fort Sumter had been fired upon, and that an internecine war would ensue,sleepy little Dunham had not been very deeply impressed. Nothing less than a local bombardment would have caused the lethargic country town to stir itself. The war seemed to be so far away, and then, too, Dunham was so comfortable in its secluded lazi- ness, that its plain country folk could notrealize the general suffering which must visit even them, before the com- ing of that ‘‘bitter end.” x But many days did not pass before the magnetic drum-beat of awakened loyalty was heard even in distant Dunham. Those who had spirited sons who were patriotic enough to serve their country on bloody fields had seen them enlist, and, with streaming eyes, had bidden their ohampions a tender ‘‘good-bye,” as they marched away with all the dis- play and pomp of a country military organization. But these repeated departures cov- ered two long years before Dunham had wearily accepted the burden of the bitter struggle and had grown ac- eustomed to such scenes. - Homesick letters had been received with omin- ous regularity, and there was even one young villager, grown desperate with home-longing, who had managed by hook or crook to return. It was not asked how he returned; he was too, speedily followed by officers bes o . . Searching for the delinquent to give much time for an exchange of senti- mental confidences. The officers failed to find him; but ‘every woman's heart beat quick with sympathy for the ‘agonized mother who knew where ber fugitive son was hidden in the fgimefses of the wooded hills behind ber lonely home. And there were fey, if any, men or women, who did hot hope that young Van ValkenBurgh would escape detection. The stain of blood now obscured the vanished gleams of martial glory. Bunhs m was heavy-hearted. And, so it transpired that quiet was agaiv, restored to the little village. CoWatry folk went their uneventful wayys and *‘the war” was only some- tVing to be talked of at the store, or #n the tavern, and ‘the boys’ were ‘nearer the vital interest than the war. Pipe and mug filled up the hours of gossip in the dreainy valley where no cannon echoed. Autumn came, and with it Lincoln's eall for the enrolling of a vast addi- tion to the national forces. Several of the villagers were drafted for three years’ service. The volunteering fe- ver had flickered, faded and died away. Then, indeed, was there heart bitter- ness and sympathetic condolences. Sad-eyed women congregated in groups to wail over the man-eating Yines of battle hidden in the far-away thunder smoke of war. Among the residents of Dunham was a family who had migrated years before from Connecticut. The father was one of those easy-going, shiftless characters, types of which may still be found on warm days sitting on the village store stoop whittling with greater or less vigor; and on cold days cunningly shifting their position from the sunny corner of the stoop to a %Harrel in the store. Occasionally Wagner did a few days ork. Several spring times he had Zielped make garden around town; he _ had lent a passive handin haying; he had stacked straw during threshing, with due caution as to over exertion, and he had helped quarry the stone for the squire’s house when pushed by need, and had on cone occasion of unusual vigor handled lumber. But these laborious times were only grave emergencies when he had to ‘‘help out” the neighbors. As a regular profession he chewed a straw, and scientifically loafed. His scanty and irregular earnings were duly passed over the tavern bar, an offering to Bacchus. Wagner loafed on princi- ple and lived on his family, his pleas- urable society being an offered equiv- alent for his board. The patient wife had sunk from any former approach to activity and energy which may have once characterized her into the faded, washed-out, tired- out woman of all work, and spent her time when not employed with her in- terminable household duties in aim- lessly gossiping with a neighbor. The keynote of the home was pitched in accord with the despondent parents. There were two sons. The eldest son was like the father; in the lan- NZNO SKORIK 0 od $ \e/ NL o84 \/ \eL NN \/\8/\ PRION 3, SCI SCSI SII RRR © III! 2 NNN, IRIRIR IR 24 / NARARIR IR ON ZS ZON A 4 Nes 2 guage of the town, ‘‘a chip of the old block.” He was lazy and unam- bitious, droll and good-hearted, and also honored the call to toil more in the breach than in the observance. On the day of the fateful draft he came home, walking slowly as usual, and then, without comment, made his way to his mother's side, mutely pointing to the red ribbon on his arm. The mother was not mentally quick of apprehension, but the draft had formed the greater part of her conver- sation with her timid neighbor the | of the terrors of battle; then too, he couldn’t bear to think of leaving that beloved mother. he moon had long since gone down, and, at last, the stars began to disap- pear one by one. vigil and the struggle in the night. Far in the East the faint gray of dawn began to tinge the hills, He saw the familiar scenes of his boyhood in the morning’s uncertain glow. There, in the far blue hills, the fugitive = Van Valkenburgh still crouched low, like a hunted animal seeking the darkest lair. Nearer was the willow-shaded cem- etery on the little side hill. Becker lay there;X a uscless sacrifice. The flowers were-still fresh upon the grave which had not yet been sodded over. The night wind moaned. Chauncey turned toward the house: ‘‘I will pay ber the debt I owe. It is the only way,” he sighed. Yes, he was still afraid, but in a recognition of some higher law his mind was made. He threw himself on his couch, and when he arose, without even mentisn- ing his intention, he enlisted. « There was the thousand dollars which barred the door forever against want, and it was the offering of a si- lent affection. The dangerous mort- gage was paid off. The rest of the money was invested in the mother’s name, and Chauncey gently put aside the thinned arms clinging round his n iw a last tender embrace, and joined = SL =z = = — eT te rE a) = Ao pu a Ve oy re = IN Ai Nr Tw A STORM THAT HAS PASSED. > day before, and through the mother love which still filled her breast she jumped to a conclusion. “Drafted?” she half whispered, half eried, one bony hand clutching at her faintly beating heart, the other reaching for her boy, while her eyes peered anxiously into his downcast face. “Tiooks like T be,” was the drawled- out reply. “Yes, mother, looks mighty like I be.” With all the misery of the ominous words ringing in her ears, the mother supported herself against the casement, her heart pulsating with a fear that grew greater because of its lack of knowledge of the full extent of its cause. But a gleam of hope suddenly shot through her breast. While talking the day before had it not been said that a drafted man may become exempt upon the payment of $300 for a’substitute? Three hundred dollars! Where was it to come from? The half-distracted mother lay awake late that night in thinking of every avenue of help, and early upon the following morning she made her way to one of the wealthy men of the town and told him her simple story. The house she lived in was her own. She had pos- sessed a little nest egg of money when she married, and she had also “worked out” by the day at odd times. She had toiled until she had saved enough to buy this house for a Tefuge in her old days. But her boy was drafted, and she could not let him go away to the war, the dreadful war, which was so cruelly devouring the ill-fated men that had gone before. - Why, it was only a few weeks before that young Becker was brought home dead, killed by a poison- ous fever, which was worse than the mercifully quick bullet. And wasn’t young Van Valkenburgh even now in the hills, trying to es- cape the vigilance of the government? No, she could not let her cherished son go, and so a mortgage was given for the 8300, and Algeroy remained at home." : But Chauncey, the second son, was made of a different metal. It was he who always built the fires for his mother, kept her wood-box filled, and saw that the water pail was never empty. He had even washed the dishes when the sick headache got the better of the mother. His kind hand lightened the daily dragging’ burden. And it was he, and he alone, who saw how, after a time, the added load of interest money to be paid would sadly increase the burden which the aging mother was even now too feeble to bear. It was then that the offer >f $1000 bounty for an enlisted soldier reached young Chauncey’s guick ear. One thousand dollars! It was a fortune! And what would it not mean to the over-burdened mother, whose home was now in jeopardy, the shelter of her age. He sat up late alone that night thinking very gravely about the crisis. He went out in the backyard and stood for a long time in the dark shadow of the old apple tree. He was not eager to go away to the now doubtful war, He was afraid, for one reason, ~ the blue-clad stream of human life flowing to the shores of Death. It was only a year afterward that the news came to the woman with quickly whitened hair, safe in her little horge, that the soldier of Love was killed. ] Somewhere along the Shenandoah ‘he sleeps with the unknown Federal dead. He may nothave his name en- rolled on any page of that history re- served for glowing heroic deeds, but on that vast Register, whose stern pages of faithful record shall be opened on the Last Day, let us be- lieve that this one humbie name shall stand far up in the line with those who are enrolled as heroes. A hero of home, a soldier of love, the man who died that the chill blast of adversity might spare the unre- quited mother who bore him. ‘‘Greater love hath no man than thts, that he layeth down his life for a friend.” RED, WHITE AND BLUE. The red rose of valorthat flushed the brave cheek; Tho white rose of sacrifice, holy and meek; The blue ranks that heard the death-mes- sengers speak. The red blood of carnage that vext the wet sod; The white form of death where the great armies trod; The blue of dim eyes as the soul sped to God. ‘‘GRAND-PA WAS A SOLDIER.” The red of the sunset that ended the day; The white clouds, like angels, that stooped o'er the fray; The blue of soft skies where the dead sol- : diers lay. : The red rose of love on the warrior’s still breast; The white rose of :peace, north and south, east and west; 8 Forget-me-nots, blue, takes his rest. —Mrs. George Archibald. where the brave A Mother’s Memorial Day. The old flag guards, the old skies bless, Unchanged his grave from year to year; But not the same a mother’s love. And not the same a motlrer’s tear! Not less the grief; but more the prifie In courage on a young heart graved. He loved, and lived, the truth divine, There is that’s lost and yet 13 saved! —George T. Packard. The Dwindling Muster Roll. For time is the foe that is cutting them down, and shorter year by year Grows that once mighty muster roll for those who can answer ‘‘Here!” The St. Louis cooking school has Still be kept the 3 A S WINS IRAs MEISIBICISIOICIOICIBIOISIIDIGIIIOICISIGO! THE YANKEE GIANT. g 4 4 x . ' { A Decoration Day Story. 123s KA i HB NENA NEOSVNZMEMONENME MNES NEEM, INAS A ISIN ANANZI ANANANAN ZINA WAS ZS ASA INANANANA 3 OR obvious reasons I shall'not tell you in what town the school is located, but when you know that it is on Locust street you can im- mediately guess; and when you have will be easy to ima- gine what cemetery it is that the Lo- every Memorial Day, when they carry their flags and flowers to decorate the graves of those brave soldiers who sacrificed their lives for the cause they believed to be the true one. Last year, when the scholars went as usual, Jack Bobbs and his cousin Bessie discovered way back in an overgrown corner of the cemetery a gravestone they had never seen be- fore, by the side of which was planted a torn and dilapidated flag and a Small bunch of cut, half-faded flowers. The two gazed silently at the weather-beaten mound; all that each had read about that cruel period inthe early sixties eame trooping up in mar- tial array and arranged themselves in their fancies with pathetic regularity. Jack read the inscription aloud. k, drew his mother to his breast®Thig was all the stone told: Died, Séptember 10, 1562, THE YANKEE GIANT. : “Our country’s lost its noblest man.” : “The Yankee Giant!” he exclaimed. *Isn’t that interesting, Bess? I won- der how tall he was.” A weather-beaten though ng a very old man, leaning on a heavy oul stick, who stood behind them answered the query. ““He fought in the battle of Antie- tam in the Civil War,” commenced the soldier, for such Jack immediate- lly knew him to have been, “‘and the reason I know about him 1s because I fought in the same battle—only——" and the old man paused, ‘‘only I was on the other side. It was this way: We came up face to face in the hurried retreat, and of course I knew he was a Yankee, and he knew I was a Secesh. He was as fine a looking young fetlow as you want to see, only a boy of eighteen or nineteen, I should say. I was just raising my gun when he knocked it from mv hands. ¢«