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worst of all, the open wagons in which the dead were piled. Once I did see one of these dreadful wagons! In it a stiff arm was raised, and shook as it was driven down the street, as though the dead owner appealed to Heaven for vengeance; a horrible sight never to be forgotten.

After one of the bloody battles-I know not if it was Gaines's Mill or Frazier's Farm or Malvern Hill-a splendid young officer, Colonel Brokenborough, was taken to our hospital, shot almost to pieces. He was borne up the stairs and placed in a cot-his broken limbs in supports swinging from the ceiling. The wife of General Mahone and I were permitted to assist in nursing him. A young soldier from the camp was detailed to help us, and a clergyman was in constant attendance, coming at night that we might rest. Our patient held a court in his corner of the hospital. Such a dear, gallant, cheery fellow, handsome, and with a grand air even as he lay prostrate! Nobody ever heard him complain. He would welcome us in the morning with the brightest smile. His aide said, "He watches the head of the stairs and calls up that look for your benefit." "Oh," he said one day, “you can't guess what's going to happen! Some ladies have been here and left all these roses, and cologne, and such; and somebody has sent-champagne! We are going to have a party!"

Ah, but we knew he was very ill! We were bidden to watch him every minute and not be deceived by his own spirits. Mrs. Mahone spent her life hunting for ice. My constant care was to keep his canteen-to which he clung with affection— filled with fresh water from a spring not far away, and I learned to give it to him so well that I allowed no one to lift his head for his drink during my hours.

One day, when we were alone, I was fanning him, and thought he was asleep. He said gravely, "Mrs. Pryor, beyond that curtain they hung up yesterday poor young Mitchell is lying! They think I don't know! But I heard when they brought him in—as I lie here, I listen to his breathing. I haven't heard it now for some time. Would you mind seeing if he is all right?"

I passed behind the curtain. The young soldier was dead. His wide-open eyes seemed to meet mine in mute appeal. I had never seen or touched a dead man, but I laid my hands

upon his eyelids and closed them. I was standing thus when his nurse, a young volunteer like myself, came to me.

"I couldn't do that," she said; "I went for the doctor. I'm so glad you could do it."

When I returned Colonel Brokenborough asked no questions and I knew that his keen senses had already instructed him.

To be cheerful and uncomplaining was the unwritten law of our hospital. No bad news was ever mentioned, no foreboding or anxiety. Mrs. Mahone was one day standing beside Colonel Brokenborough when a messenger from the front suddenly announced that General Mahone had received a flesh-wound. Commanding herself instantly, she exclaimed merrily: "Flesh-wound! Now you all know that is just impossible." The General had no flesh! He was as thin and attenuated as he was brave.

As Colonel Brokenborough grew weaker I felt self-reproach that no one had offered to write letters for him. His friend the clergyman had said to me: "That poor boy is engaged to a lovely young girl. I wonder what is best? Would it grieve him to speak of her! You ladies have so much tact; you might bear it in mind. An opportunity might offer for you to discover how he feels about it." The next time I was alone with him I ventured: "Now, Colonel one mustn't forget absent friends, you know, even if fair ladies do bring perfumes and roses and what not. I have some ink and paper here. Shall I write a letter for you? Tell me what to say." He turned his head and with a half-amused smile of perfect intelligence looked at me for a long time. Then an upward look of infinite tenderness; but the message was never sentnever needed from a true heart like his. One night I was awakened from my first sleep by a knock at my door, and a summons to "come to Colonel Brokenborough." When I reached his bedside I found the surgeon, the clergyman, and the Colonel's aide. The patient was unconscious; the end was near. We sat in silence. Once, when he stirred, I slipped my hand under his head, and put his canteen once more to his lips. After a long time his breathing simply ceased, with no evidence of pain. We waited awhile, and then the young soldier who had been detailed to nurse him rose, crossed the

room, and, stooping over, kissed me on my forehead, and went out to his duty in the ranks.

Two weeks later I was in my room, resting after a hard day, when a haggard officer, covered with mud and dust, entered. It was my husband.

"My men are all dead," he said, with anguish, and, falling across the bed, he gave vent to the passionate grief of his heart.

Thousands of Confederate soldiers were killed, thousands

wounded.

Richmond was saved!

General McClellan and General Lee both realized that their men needed rest. My husband was allowed a few days' respite from duty. Almost without pause he had fought the battles of Williamsburg, Seven Pines, Mechanicsville, Gaines's Mill, and Frazier's Farm. He had won his promotion early, but he had lost the loved commander who appreciated him, had seen old schoolmates and friends fall by his side—the dear fellow, George Loyal Gordon, who had been his best man at our wedding-old college comrades, valued old neighbors.

Opposed to him in battle, then and after, were men who in after years avowed themselves his warm friends-General Hancock, General Slocum, General Butterfield, General Sickles, General Fitz-John Porter, General McClellan, and General Grant. They had fought loyally under opposing banners, and from time to time, as the war went on, one and another had been defeated; but over all, and through all, their allegiance had been given to a banner that has never surrendered

men.

the standard of the universal brotherhood of all true

A MODERN COURTSHIP

I shall not ask Jean Jacques Rousseau
If birds confabulate or no.

'Tis clear that they were always able
To hold discourse-at least in fable.

-COWPER.

A mocking-bird sang in a tulip tree
To a bird in a rose-bush near.
He was telling once more the story old,
In the blossoming time of the year.

He was "neat as an epigram"-—this bird—
In his new summer-suit of gray,

And she was "smart," like the maidens we meet
On the Avenue every day.

He tunefully trilled of "a lonely life
And a desolate spirit's need."

His taste and technique were perfect-his voice
A very fine tenor indeed.

He said he had nothing to give but Love
And a little good minstrelsy.

He fluttered and fidgeted so, I thought
He would surely drop from the tree!

But the little brown bird examined a rose,
And I never have been quite sure

That she heard him at all-or cared to hear-
Her manner was so demure.

Then he puffed out his breast with a pompous air,
And told of his fine pedigree-

How his ancestors sang in Virginia woods
Ere the British had crossed the sea!

For musty old fellows of a far-off time
She cared not a fig-not she!
She spied a young worm on an under leaf,
And quietly picked him-for tea!

She was calm as the sea-when we cross in June

As calm as the stars above her!
As calm as a Vassar or Barnard girl-
Only Star-eyed Science her lover!

But my wise little bird knew a loftier strain
That has never been known to fail,

Since Robin Red-breast courted sweet Jenny Wren
In the old-fashioned nursery tale.

He

sang a brave song about "sugar and cream

And berries-and currant wine"

And a "cushion soft"-and a ladylike "seam❞—
And ended: "Now will you be mine?"

I leaned from my window to warn the young thing— To say: "Don't believe him, my dear!

You'll spend all your days in quite different ways From those he has mentioned, I fear.

"You'll sit, till you ache, on your obstinate eggs,
And a tyrant, I give you my word,
With an appetite perfectly shocking to see,
Is your just-newly-hatched young bird.

"His stomach is simply a bottomless pit!
His mouth is a cavernous door!
And one little mother to satisfy three
Little Olivers-asking for more!'

"And he—that fine promiser-where will he be?
At his numerous clubs, to be sure!
They are waiting for him in every tree,
With a welcome at every door."

I could have said more; but I learned long ago
To trim my sails to the weather,

Besides before I could fairly begin,
They were flying off together!

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