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ISSUED TWIOE-A-WEEK?WEDNESDAY AND FRIDAY. lewis m. grist, Proprietor. j Jt jfamitj llcu'sunger: jfor the promotion of the political, Social, Agricultural and Commercial Interests of the South. { ter?>:oi.e'?m'v! Vmrke cknts!ce' VOLUME 4:1. YOKKVILLE, S. C., FETDY^MYY" 1^1805. XU.MBER d<>. THE PATRIOTS' GRAVES. BT NEIL MACDONALD. P "'it '' E STREW fresh flowers yupon your graves, Where mourners yet their igils keep, Though o'er the mounds the star flag waves For which you fought who lowly sleep. When still the arms that you entwined, And those bereaved have joined your throng. Yet in a nation's heart enshrined Your deeds shall garnish tale and song Green still your graves as years march on. The patriot's fame knows not decline. On heads that fell at Marathon The amaranthine wreaths still twine. Bleep, while our country's grateful tears Bedew your quiet place of rest. Henceforth through all the coming years To freedom and to country blest. Dead now the rancor once so rife, And south to north is as a brother, And gallant deeds that marked the strife They prize in common with each other. Those who for freedom and the flag Laid down their lives without repining, Enshrined with those who did not lag When star of southland was declining. Who would not dare to share your fate? The soldier's death, the patriot's grave? *" la worthy of a freeman's hate And only fit to be a slave. COLONEL AND MAJOR. [Copyright, 1886, by American Press Associa tiozuj The oolonel and the major sat on the hotel piazza playing cribbage. The soft, balmy spring breeze now and then bore to their bearing the blatant fanfare of trumpets or the roll of drums. Everywhere their eyes were saluted by the fluttering folds of the stars and stripes. Occasionally they stopped in their game to look at pretty little girls walking by, dressed in white, their tiny arms filled with wreaths and bouquets, or at the wagons rolling in from the country laden with men and women, hastening to attend the services which were to be held in the qniet village graveyard on the hill yonder, where many dead heroes slept. It was an ideal Memorial day. The sky was clear as crystal and bine as sapphires. Here and there it was loving> ly kissed by soft, fleecy clouds. Birds were pouring forth showers of melody from the trees, gay in their young spring livery. The little town at the foot of the mountains, lying purple in the soft, swimming sunlight, bad taken on an air of almost joyous festivity. The cheerful voices, the flowers, the white dresses, the flags and bunting conspired to render the soene one more like a fete than a remembrance Only the solemn roll of I lit) uruLUS tab a uistauuo i^muiuou tug two old warriors looking on at the pageant what the day meant. The oolonel rose and walked to the end of the piazza and leaning against one of the pillars stood there in thoughtful silence. The oolonel limped a little when he walked. He had carried a bullet in his thigh since Gettysburg. ' The major, turning in his ohair, regarded his friend. The light, striking his fine old face, showed the ragged soar of a saber cut he got at Fredericksburg. The two maimed old fellows had not known each other long. Both bad drifted to this little mountain resort to ^ drink the waters, lamous lor tneir m eaioinal properties. They had met in the hotel, struck up a friendship, walked, talked and played oribbage together. Though both had fought in the civil war, they tacitly tabooed the subject, for the oolonel had fought like a devil on the northern side, and the major bad fought like a tiger on the side of the lost causa rBut now the chords of memory were strangely stirred. Up through the dark fir trees guarding the cemetery there "I AM NOT A REBEL, SIRJ" suddenly rolled the strain of an old army song, stirring in its measure, pathetiojn its melody: Oh wrap the tlap around ine, boys. To die were far more sweet. With freedom's banner o'er me, boys. To be my winding sheet." The colonel gently beat time on the railing with his long, lean hand. His eyes grew retrospective "How it all comes back I" he mnrmnred half aloud. '^1 can see the watchfires, the long rows of tents glistening in the moonlight, the squadrons wheeling down the hill, the artillery inas6ing in the valley, the signal rockets piercing the sky I can hear the bugle"? Ho broke off suddenly. The major had risen and wns facing him, his dark eyes blazing, his face white and drawn. "Don't bring it up, colonel," he said hoarsely. "I can't tell you how it makes me feel. Do vou suppose that I, too, do not go back to those clays, to all I suffered then and since? I have repressed my emotions for years. But the volcano is here, " touching his breast. "I do not wish it to break forth." "It's a great idea," replied the colonel testily, "if I cannot speak of a night scene in the late war without your fetching mo up so roundly. I did not dream you had so bad a temper, sir." "}Iy temper is as even as yours, sir," retorted the major, "but can't you see it is hard enough for me to witness these sceues today without having the whole ghastly panorama again unfold d before me by your thoughtlessness, sir?" The colonel lost his head. "Damme," ho cried, "you rebels never like to hear anything for your good!" "I beg your pardon, sir,"said the major with ominous calmness, "did you apply that term to me?" "I did." "I am not a rebel, sir," choked the major. "I fought for a hopeless?a sublime?cause. But now I support the same flag you fought under. Remember thatl After this, of course, we will not have the honor of each other's acquaintance," and with a haughty bow the major walked into the hotel. The colonel thumped his cane on the floor of the piazza. His face flushed. "Devilish hot headed southerner," he said, "and yet a charming fellow. W!h?c a companion he has been to mel wnac a game 01 criooagu uu piujeuj Aud now to go and spoil everything. Dear, dear; it's too bad How I shall miss him!" As the colonel ruefully contemplated the future a boy approached him with ! his mail. Eagerly seizing his letters he sat down to read them and to forget the unpleasant episode as quickly as pos- < sibla i One of his letters was from an old 1 army friend, a man with whom he had 1 kept up an acquaintance born in fire and < smoke. A sentence in the letter ran as < follows: "Curious thing you Bhould be ] in Hazle Wells on Memorial day. That < was Dennison's wife's home, and I am I sure he is buried in the cemetery thera : You must throw a flower on his grave i for ma " The colonel dropped the letter in ] nonnicnn I Ont: nf fchp nasfc i there rose a beautiful figure, with fearless eyes, resolute lips, soft, fair hair, gay, good humored, smiling face and reckless, audacions air. What a rare fellow he was I Dennisou, who feared uei- < 1 *1*14^* * r THE COLONEL SOBBED ALOUD. ther mau uor devil, who led wherever ( hope was most forlorn, who was always ( wnere toe ngnc was notcesc, who ien last, a jest oxi his lips, struck to the j heart by asonthern bullet A Boutheru- ^ er, too, by birth and education, but who broke away from tradition and environ- i ment and drew hi9 sword in defense of his country's flag. "I remember, now, his wife was a j northern girl. Dennison used to talk of , his home up in the Alleghanies. And it ^ was here? And his grave is over there?" The colonel strained his eyes toward the graveyard. "Just as soon as the crowd gets away I will go over and find it and 1 put a few flowers on it Brave boy, brave fellow. I am so glad Tom wrote ! me." Meantime the major had passed through a whirlwind of passion and j sorrow alone in his room. What right had this insolent triumphant northerner to stir him so? Why disturb those depths in his bruised, aching old heart? Over and over the southerner lived the j past, with its dreams of glory, its futilo struggles, its cruel disappointments. A nnin fho ifinl nf hiQ hrtVlsh ' dreams, as, vanquished, boaten, but still heroic, bo handed bis conquered sword to the victor. Again bo saw bis home destroyed, himself poor, forced to accop a 1 menial position, drifting about, a bat- . teredold wreck on the sea of life, until he bad fallen in with this man, whom he had honestly liked and who had neod lessly hurt him and opened the old j wounds afresh. A knock at the door, and the major's mail was handed him. As he looked it over he saw a letter, directed in the well known writing of his lawyer in Atlanta. He broke it open and read it hurriedly. Then he sank, back in his chair* and rzrz: er= f i# vw /'jw from his closed eyes large tears dropped down over his scarred fa The sentence which had so pro ly moved him was this: "She h her fortune to you, as her husbant brother, loved you so. His grav the cemetery of the very town you are now stopping." ? The afternoon sun poured a fi dazzling light across the marble 3t>ones, whose solemn rigidity we fcened by garlands of flowera The bad gone. Here and there a stray or yet wandered, reading the nan on the white stonea The solemr pie mountains were rose flushed sunset Up from the village came tervals the muffled sound of the n musio, now rising and swelling 3oftly dying nway. The colonel slowly and labor pioked his way among the graves ping now and then to read a ns > i 1 i L- ?? ? ^.^11 u. iai-6. ^6 lasu uo uauuo iu ? a* ilosure, and parting the climbir rines passed in. Yes, here was w sought. A smooth white slab to world that "Here lies Captain C Dennison, 49th Regiment, Pennsy Volunteers," with the added vers On fame's eternal camping grounc Their silent tents are spread, And glory guards with ceaseless r The bivouac of the dead. fl?he poor old colonel was so ove it beholding, after so many yea: tomb of his favorite officer that, aring the grave with the costliest ars he had been able to procure, h his head upon his hands and t aloud. A sound near him made him ra head. On the other side of the grave the major. The two men looked steadfai aach other for a moment "Colonel," the major was fi apeak, "what was Captain Charle: aison to you?" "A beloved officer, sir," sai aolouel, struggling to choke bac amotions. "I loved him like a so [ only learned this morning that) Viqto" Hu Virnlrn nfF i UV&W MV W*v**w w?) ? further to proceed. "Aud are these your flowers?" ihe major. The colonel only bowed his hea "I thank you, sir," said tho ma bis most stately and winning mi "for this kindly tribute to one < family"? "Your family?" gasped the col "Yes, Captain Charles Dennisc my youngest brother, sir." The colonel recoiled as if he ha< struck. But in an instant, reco' bimself, he courteously doffed hi ind extending his long hand ov ?rave said simply, "Will you f me, major?" And as the sun dipped down 1 the mountains it sent its last rays two battered, maimed old heroes lway arm in arm from the grave o tain Charles Dennisou. And tho north and the south more were reunited. Edith Sessions Tcpj Remembrances of Rose*. iVhen slowly falls the curtain of the nif And none is here except the silent rlei iThen pales the western sky in dying li And ashen grayness comes in cri stead, rhen will we know each buried hero tr ly reposes Midst memories of musio and rememl of roses. ?E. M. T Rest On. Best on, embalmed and sainted dea Dear was the blood you gave. No impious footsteps here shall trei The herbage of your grave. ] r'~\ | r \ ".i! i i I slowly _ FROM THE FRONT. found as left [Copyright, 1895, b7 American Press Associa 1, your tion.J e is in ft wag a story frame house, w painted white and with green blinds, # and it stood a little way baok from lood of roa(^ t^at wonn(* tbrongh a narrow i head- va^ey between low hills of second \a sof- timber. In front of the house crowd a big, heavily fmited cherry tree. visit- A boy was perched upon a ladder ies cat among the branches, filling a tin pail 1, par- with the raby fruit, his fiugers flying as by the if he were competing with the birds, at in- who seemed to think they had a mortlartial gage on all the chorries in the neighbornow hood. But his haste had another caaso. His mother had bnt a moment before iously told him that when he had filled the pail , stop- three times he might go to the postofflce, ime or a mile farther down the valley, and inapt in- quire for the mail, ig rose The boy knew his mother to be quite hat he as anxious as he that the trip should be Id the made to the postoffice. For more than a harles week his daily visit after the mail had lvania been fruitless, and he was certain she se: ^as worrying, in spite of her usual air j of cheerfulness, for the head of the little family was at the front, wearing a ound blue uniform, and vague rumors were afloat of a bloody battle in Pennsylvaircomo nia. rs, the Singularly enough, the mail had lateshow ly failed to bring newspapers, as well as 5 flow- letters, and it had not been possible to e bent borrow from the neighbors as usual Tho sobbed boy and his mother had not talked much on the matter; but, whatever his mother ise his thought, he suspeoted bad news in the papers?news that would explain why ? stood there were no letters. He was impatient to go to the postoffice, but he dreaded stly at the visit, too, and this made him climb down the ladder slowly when at last rst to the Pa^ ^"a3 filled for the third time, s Den- As his feet touched the oarth he heard tho rattlo of wheels, and looking around 3 the he saw Deacon Nelson's big bay horse k his and decent black democrat wagon, driven n, sir. by the deacon himself, draw near. The tie was deacon's countenance, which was genmable erally smiling and jolly, was very solemn now, and the face of the deacon's asked ^e> wh? 8at on the back seat under a SB. DRIVEN BT THE DEACON HIMSELF. gingham parasol, was tear stained As &t the deacon slowly got out of the wagon and tethered the horso ho asked, with a juson'9 fiuo show of cheerfulness: "Has your mother hoard from the anquii- elder in a day or two, John? No? Well, jnuicua Marthy and hie was just driving by, and ( we thought we'd mnko a little visit, you ( tober. eee, just to ask how your corn orop was getting on, you know." Then, to his wife in an undertone, he said: "Now, 4 be oareful, Marthy. It's all right; it's ^ all right It must be all right, I tell ( ?on'" ? I The deacon was one of tbe chief pil* fit lar? in the church of which the boy's fa- ei ther, before going to the front, had been pastor, and, like all in that neighborhood G and similar neighborhoods, the deacon s* always spoke of his minister as "the fit 2kler." This minister had been ont- si spoken in his patriotism during the first tl jtear of the war. During the second he tl had induoed many of the neighborhood's b: ablebodied men to enlist. Early in the ^ third he had himself marched away as 11 th6ir captain, with the young men from his own congregation who had offered a themselves to their country. If the boy e! was doubtful about his father's safety b before the deacon spoke, ho was not aft- 8 erward. It seemed to his young mind as if the deacon has said between his audi- P ble words: "Tbo elder is Kineo, Doyi uo yau hear? Killed!" John hurried into the house with his B pail of cherries, kissed his mother and startod on a run for the postoffice. It was a hot day, but he did not inind the heat It is doubtful if ho knew it was hot He thought only of the bare possibility that he might get a letter addressed to his mother or himself in his father's dear handwriting, and he ran till nature was exhausted and he had to stop and rest under the shadow of a big buttouball tree by the side of the road When he had regained his breath, he started on again, but this time at a more moderate pace, and as he ap proached the little general store where the postomce was kept dis iooisieps lagged. He was afraid he would receive the same answer that he had for days. "Nothing today, sonny. Tell your mother the papers missed this week. No, there is no letter. I swan, I wish there was." That was just the answer the boy did receive when at last he crept into the store between rows of two tined hayforks and wooden" hand rakes, but there was this addition by the kindly old postmaster to the dreaded words that told o the story of no mail: "Tell your mother that we may get A another mail today, and if we do we'll ^ send anything that comes for yon rignr np." * There was no regnlar service to the A little postoffice, for no railroad ran through the uarrow valley, but the mail A was brought from the county seat, 11 miles distant, at intervals by any one who went that way. During the boy's weary homeward tramp through the dust and under the burning rays of the sun he thought only t of how he should tell his mother there 0 was still no mail. g When he reached home, he found a ]< half dozen white haired farmers, all H clad in Sunday black, standing about the ? yard under the shade of the trees. There were no young or middle aged men v there, for all such in that neighborhood * had gone to the war with their beloved h ' I ' 0 "NO, THEP.E IS NO LETTER." ^ preacher. As the boy entered the yard A one of the men hastily stack a newspa- ? per, from which he had been reading to T the others, into his pocket In the little parlor of the white house there were several women younger than Deacon Nelson's wife. Their husbands were soldiers, too, and at the front with 8 the preacher. The boy's mother was sitting in the center of a circle of kneeling H women, her eyes set and tearless, but there was a sound of subdued sobbing from some of the others. The deacon ^ was just beginning a prayer. "Dear Lord, our heavenly Father," quavered tho deacon in tender and reverent tones. Then he stopped. What was that? The boy's ear was not the only one that caught the sound of fife and drum, c, .e* 1 : ?.-1- HDotl- "DtJ I LIU LUU ?Jiil)lLJg Hi CliliJ, xtuiijr J.WUUUU the Flag, Boys, Rally Once Again"? t: you know how it sounds, reader?while ? the drumsticks were beating out the a time in lively measure. 0 A moment more, and the rattle of a P wagon coming down a stony slope in n the road was heard. Then there was a n cheer, and the fife and drum changed to P "Yankee Doodle. " Presently the wagon, ^ in which sat the postmaster himself, S( the blacksmith, the cooper and the boys S( who were playing the fife and drum drove noisily up. The old postmaster al- ^ most fell out of the wagon and stumbled 7 up the path to the door. He was quite breathless, but he held aloft in his hand & a big yellow envelope. ^ "It's from the elder, brethren 1 It's n from the elder I" he gasped. "I know 0 his handwriting, and the postmark is 7 since the battla Open it, ma'am, "he v said to the boy's mother, "and read it 7 out." Everj body gathered around her as she n took the missive, but it wasn't opened n just yet, for she fainted before she could ^ cut the envelope. It was not long. It 81 said: 6 "Dear Wife and Son John?I have 0 been hurt a little and lay on the field all night, but it is not serious, and I shall not even have to go to the hospital. So k do not be worried. We have won a C< great victory, and our God will keen me ^ ifely to the end and bring us all togethr again." "Let ns sing the Doxology, 'Praise od, from whom all blessings flow,' " ?id Deacon Nelson, while his eyes Teamed. Then they all sang with the pirit and the understanding also. When le singing was over, the newspaper jat had been hidden from the boy was ronght out. It told of the battle of Getrsburg, and the name of the elder was 1 the list of the missing. The elder d id live to come home again, nd on every Decoration day since the jtablishment of that beautiful holiday e has made a talk over the eoldiers' raves in the little cemetery back of the burch in the valley, of which he is still ostor. L D. Marshall OUR SOLDIER DEAD. leautlfol Tributes aDd Great Thought* tr? Poet and Sage. Sleep, comrades, sleep and rest, On this Held of the grounded arms. Where foes no more molest Nor sentry'9 shot alarms. Your silent tents of green We deck with fragrant flowers. Yours h:w the suffering been; The memory shall bo ours. ?H. W Longfellow. They sleep so calm and stately, Each in his graveyard bed, It scarcely seems that lately They trod the fields blood red With fearless tread. They marched and never halted. They scaled the parapet. The triple lines assaulted And paid without regret The final debt. The debt of slow accruing A guilty nation made; The debt of evil doing, Of justice long delayed? 'TVas this they paid. ?Theodore P. Cook. h, brothers, the day9 grow longer, and the nights like a glory shine, , ,nd the love of our souls is stronger than the heat and the flro of wine. *e were foes when the guns wero frowning from tho walls that were grim and steep, low the grass and the blossoms are crowning the graves where our heroes sleep, rid tho years with purpose are pregnant, though our swords aro red with rust, jid right in the world is regnant, and wrong lies prono i n the dust. ?Thomas S. Collier. This day is sacred to our heroes dead. Upon heir tombs wo have lovingly laid the wealth f spring. This is a day for memory and tears. I mighty nation bends above its honored raves and pays noble dust the tribute of its jvo. Gratitude is the fairest flower that sheds le perfume in the heart. Today we tell the hisary of our country's life, recount the lofty eeds of vanished years, the toil and Buffering, he defeats and victories of heroic men, of men. rho made our nation great and free. Today re remember tho defeats, the victories, the isasters, the weary marches, the poverty, tho unger, the sufferings, the agonies and above II tho glories of revolution. Wo remember all -from Lexington to Valley Forge and from hat midnight despair to Yorktown's cloudless ay. ?Robert G. IngersolL 'ield not to grief the tribute of a tear, But 'neath the forefront of a spacious sky mile all exultant, as they smiled at fear Who dared to do where doing meant to die. o best may comrades prove remembrance dear, So best be hallowed earth where soldiers l<e. ?Francis Howard Williams. ccC?n ring flowers to strew again 'ith fragrant purple rain f lilacs and of roses white and red he dwellings of our dead, our glorious dead. et the bells ring a solemn funeral chime nd wild war music bring anew the time "hen they who sleep beneath 'ere full of vigorous breath nd in their lusty manhood sallied forth, biding in strong right hand ho fortunes of the land, ho pride and power and safety of the north. ?Henry Peterson. ' trew tho fair garlands where el amber the dead, Ring out the strains like tho swell of thoeca. eartfelt the tribute we lay on each bod. Sound o'er the bravo tho refrain of the free, Dund tho refrain of the loyal and freo, Visit each sleeper and hallow each bed, ave the starred banner from seacoaat to sea. Grateful the living and honored the dead. ?Samuel P. Smith. Love Letters. There ought to bo a law making it a apital crime to keep any letter more ban six months. More than half the rouble in this world?tho sort of troule, I mean, that breaks people's hearts nd is occasionally aired in the divorce ourts?is caused by letters foolishly reserved. Of course sensible people ever write letters that all the world light not read. But all the sensible eople are dead, for I venture to say here is not one of us who has not at ome period of his lifo poured forth his eul in a letter he'd give his ears never 3 have written. If you are a man, it oesn't so much matter, for even if our letters to your oia sweetneart ao ill into the hands of her present husand it isn't at all likely he'll read thein. len haven't enough curiosity in tho latter. Honorable soruples? Not a bit f it?simply lack of curiosity. But if on are a wumau doesn't it make you rrithe in spirit to think of those letters ou wrote Jack or Will or George rhen you were suro he was tho only lan in the world? Of course the girl he larried has read them?trust a woman ir that?and she has made fun pf your duI's outpourings, and?well, it's nough to turn one's hair white to think f it. Love letters ought to be written i ink that would fade in a fortnight, ut 60 long as they are not people who eep them ought to be put into solitary enfineruent for all the rest of their ves.?Washington Post