Evening Star Newspaper, May 28, 1892, Page 7

GRAFFIELD,; A DECORATION DAY STORY. WRITTEN FOR THE EVENING STAR BY WILL CARLETON. CHAPTER I. HE TOWN CEME- tery at North Graffield, Mass., was a not unu- sual collection of quaint and mournful outdoor pictures, all painted, | consciously and uncon- seiously, by the living ‘nd the dead. Hardly any one called ita ceme- tery in those da; if a “graveyard” only in the simple but forcible dialect of the In refreshing contrast to this little dreary Village of the dead was the village of th nd near by—fuil of New England thrift and energy. The people, old and young, were as lively an Say as if they were a separate race and never | expected to die. as had those in the little quiet municipality on the hill. This field of tired-out laborers contained an evolution of tombstones, epitaph+ and monu- ments. There were little brown sand-stone slabs, some of them 200 years old, the names and figures appearing in curve and angle sharp and distinct, as if ancient ptian artists had done them. "There were square marble tomb- stones. blurred and blotched by storm and de- eay; there were a few pathetic wooden ones, planted there by poverty; there were invisible ones, left «o by the hand of ne It wus im- pressive to notice how different were the abodes Of the living, who could care for themselves, and the dead, who could not. Sulll there ‘was in the cemetery one ample Scoth granite vase, i ory and glistening complac sleek sides at the plebeian landmarics This was to emphasize the posthmmons impor ance ofa wealthy Boston tea dealer, who had back to rest in sight of the mountains | ha h. asa boy, he descended to fortune, granite was employed by the ge to rehearse daily the fact that said village had once furnished # governor for the mmonwealth. There were even two or three old vaults in a corner of the field. fm which lay stored broken images that had held some of the prouder spirits of the neigh- -borhood. It was the 29h of May of year not long after the war cloved. Two middle-aged men were looking carefully among the miniature hilltops, which, though covering death, were themselves overspread with the life of thrifty Vegetation. “Faces mon were ex-scldiers. They seemed not particularly strong in their movements; one of them limped and the other raised his right arm with difficulty. ‘They carried small American flags, the staffs of which they were plunging in the ground at the heads of all the soldiers’ graves they could find: these were put there for the purpose af announcing that such graves were to be covered with tiowers at to- morrow's decoration. A little girl, the grand- child of one of them, was wandering more or less near by and oecasionally singing softly, half to herself, to keep the child imagination from the belief that her doll was crying. ‘It seems to me, Bai suid, “us if E was a walkii steamboat in the night, or at a thin’. where a lot of oid neigh out away from home an’ laid down anywhere they could eateh it, an’ w I find myself steppin’ careful, every awhile, as if for fear of re some on “em. I don’t believe there's hardiy one here (except them that slipped away ‘fore I was born) but what if ther’ get rich* np an’ look me in the eyes we'd know each: ovher.” Barker did not re;ly. but «eemed to be listen- ing in 2 way whieh to the other wax more com- plimentary than an answer. The notes of a sax-horn bugle came roftly up from the saile: village near by. It wax the leader of the brass band which was to play at tomorrow's cere- monies. He was chanting thit old war ode," We Shall Meet. but We Shall Miss Him,” and each note sounded to the soldiers like an old iriend. here's folks here from every house in town, mast prond little vill aldn't of though: they'd ever be covered up like this. People that was #o seif-standin’ an’ so independent like youd never've guewed they'd submit to lyin’ i evyard with just a rongh stone wall round they be—quiet as you please— Barker still framed his replies in deep but sympathetic silence. The little girl was soft jumming “Rest for the Weary,” or somethin of the kind, rocking her doll, which ¢ imagined uow to have falle p. She Cuptain Stubbers, Barkei up-and-at-it man he was in all military matters before the war! He recruited the first company ‘of peaceful soldiers we ever had here since old trainin’ times—when we thought war was just somethin’ to be read about in the history books, an’ +poke in pieces at school, an’ played with by marchin’ from one end 0” the town to the other an’ back ag'in. Captain Stubbers used to declare war in this easy-goin’ town about once a month, an’ git all the voung fellers around here taggin’ after him with muskets on their shoulders an’ four drums, three fifes an’ a tri- angle ahead to bait ‘em along. Whg, they fol- lowed him like sheep a bein’ salted. How straight the captain used to march! He looked as if he had had hi« head an’ -houlders took off an’ set on agin a little further back. When the war broke out he never ot any more southerly than Wash- ton: he was took sick an‘ had to resign au come home. But he was al’ays marshal o' the day at political meetin’s an’ the Fourth o° July —al'ays top o° the chelf. a little higher than the other dishes. Yo ld o° thought that he would submit to a graveyard. He took tie ur pains all through the war not to. But [ore he right down almost under my left foot.” Barker remembered thé of him. He had been tion,” continued the old John J. had! He was one o° dukes—a reg'lar old out-an'-out high coe! Jorum. When I was L used to straighte: up an look as interestin’ as I could, an’ kind o' | your | Bumbly muked grave. “Wha be sober now, for he has been dead quite a good while. but ef +o he ain't responsi An’ still he was the life o our whole company when he wasn't in the guard hov Just then a young lady rode slowly along the Kittle clay street that skirted one side of the | burying ground. Her strong. black horse seemed to love every motion of the bei or whip, and to more than obey it. She was girl | to be obeyed, with her large black evesandstutely manners, and still it was e is than in fear. ‘The eyes, while imperial in their expression, could be iender and appealing at very short no- tice. And one never knew which of the two methods of ruling she was about to adopt. She was known throxghout the country as “The governor's granddaughter,” being ‘de- scended from the great man now Iying Smder the monument. People do not always Uke thore they look up to; but everybody liked, respected and feared at the came time. She had a great deal of the old governor's governor blood, ‘Ss well as the sweetness of another line of an- had just inherited a couple of millions, all made out of tea in Boston, and it was hoped and be- Lieved im the village that she would make that €2,000,000 into a series of glitter- ing fragments before the matrimonial been consummated. Her first ifted south just before the war, , it was raid, by her continued half wed He final, HLS fe glk cont Ate iy i i | Hi take hold.’ Pie a oe to settle beeen sintuen “whether to" deswnte -Aibenver tomorrow, an’ they too. Why they desarve it? Because they fit on the side!—an’ here’s this fellow, right in here with them who fit right ag’in ‘em—maybe killed some of ‘em—an’ the question azises, hed he onght to have flowers or thorns? I have heard some say, ‘Is he entitled to any place in this grave- yard at all?’ . “Well, Barker,” rejoined the other, “it’s more than a day's hard work for the head an’ heart to decide what any one deserves after he’s dead. I suppose God Almighty is the only one that ought to consider himself competent to do that; an’ this man’s dead.” ‘Yes. Is'pose he is,” rej the other. ‘That is, the body department of him; but I ain't so sure concerning the remainder. Well, the remainder of him is a good ways off, probably, anyhow, Barker,” replied his companion, drily. “Far enough away so we have any bother with it.” i bout that, too,” re- plied Barker. “There's afew people believes that when a man dies without havin’ done up his life to his own satisfaction or any one else's. he gets back here, some way. an’ apies around to try if he can’t fix it up different.” Ghosts?” inquired Lussell, with a laugh in histone. As this sonorous monosyllable was pronounced the little girl forgot about the doll, Taised a small shapely bead and 0} her eyes wide, and ax round asthe third letter of the word. Already a mention of the weird ace of disembodied spirits hud power to thrill her. replied Barker. “I didn’t use ain't dead sure that I do It’s one of these things almost everybody believes in a little; thingy a fellow can have contidence in some of the time, and then ag in he can't. I ain't sure whether I believe in ‘em today or not: but I did several times durin’ the wa “One night, lyin’ in my tent in Virginn; arter a hard day'« work. marehin’—marchin’ marehin’—I was just in that queer place where thinkin’ stopsand dreamin’ begins, when I spied aman who stood right up over meas plain as fean plainer too; for my eyes don’t ¥ stronger as I grow old. That was my brother, that I never agreed with very well, me? for some years, and can’t really that I wanted to. ‘Hello, Jim,’ he says, i queer off-hand way: ‘I stopped in a minute to apologize for never agreeing with you, and to make an explanation why we never understood each other, why we couldn't hook our ideas and feelings together, but I've found out that it wasn'teither of our faults, It won't be piled up ag’in_ either of our doors; it'll ull come out right before long; it was the mistake of some of our forefathers, generations ago. It'll all be explained when we wee each other again, and we shall be as good friends as we ought to be—I can't stop but a minute now —good-bye.” Sam died that same evenin’ in Buell’s army, hun- dreds of miles away.” “Just a kind of balf think and half dream,” objected Russell. “Well. maybe it was; but it's kind of half dream I don't have every night in the week,” replied his companion. “At any rate, I believed in ghosts for a month or two after that. Then, for a year or more, it seemed to me it was ali nonsense But just as the war was over, an’ we a goin’ to start for home the nex’ day, an’ I was as happy as any time in my whole life—about midnight I woke almost up. , that Is pored was to home, come an’ put his arms round my ‘This part of the story was not finiched. There aminiatnre grave in one corner of the cemetery that concluded the faltering speech. Kussell quietly placed a flag at the head of the boy's tomb before he left the inclosure. then it’s run along from that time to continued Barker. The little girl wag alking hand in hand with him, her head the knew that the little dead boy in the shorter ev “Unele Freddie. ed a great deal by that tiny little mound, thinking how ce it would have been, had he lived, to have a getany sf that be would have | tonde ee this time much larger than #he. along from that time to this, tinued the oid ‘man, thoughtfully. “But last night I was comin’ along, in the furder edge of the evenin’, past the graveyurd; I was sort of old-man tired, an’ maybe a little sleep; leaned up ag'in one of the fence posts an’ fell to considerin’ abont the ditferent folks I had known that hed nllMeo.re here ty dwell at last— just as you was 2 « little while ugo. I can t believe I got asleep, an’ I don't jedge it e been a dream. It xeemed to me that ind rose straight up from behi avestone.an’ Leud see hiimas well as any one could be made out in the night. Then it | bad appeared as if he spoke, an’ says: ‘Jimmy, is that you” (He med ‘to call me ‘Jimmy’ even when he was @ little boy, and I liked it, from him.) “Ididn't seem able to get up any ansxer: could:'t say a word; nothin’ pertainin’ to me would move, exceptin’ my hair, and that was tryin’ to get away by creepin’ up torge the top of my head. All the rexerdue of me just hung onto that gate post, an’ stared. But the ghost went right on a talkin’—or ro it appeared to me. ‘Jimmy,’ iteaid, ‘Iean't stay aw had to come back, even for ever so little a time. I'm now in hell, Jimmy, actually in hell. I can’t bear to think that “im an’ mother is both down on me #0 becance I fought on the other side. What could Ido, old frien My wife was all southern; her relatives, that had been kind an* true an’ honorable ‘to me from the minute I first got there, a poor yankee schoolmaster—they was all southerners; the air was full of it andIhad to breathe. The south seemed to mea country within a country: and if it stepped out, wasn't I still my own adopted land? What was the whole —_ country toany of us except an adopted one? All our jor came from other pazés of the world. ‘wiro—I enlisted—in the confederate army, {ni then down came a letter fom my dear old had always loved him, to say ig of my sweet mother’—here the ghost seemed to me to hitch a little au’ choke like ‘Thad hoped to bring my wife next year, and she would have made friends here “with ody in two day: this letter from my father, and it said: ‘ou have joined the enemies of your coun- try and are asmuch of a traitor as “Benedict Arnold ever was. More, he fought in favor of the nation before he betrayed it. and you have never done any for it, exeept to live on its bounty and enjoy its protection. Coward! “*You had the best of New England blood in your veins and as good teaching as I was able to provide. All the worse that you have done did. “You have probably fallen intosuch a slough of treachery and dixgrace that the contempt of a mothef and the curse of a father are of no ac- count to you; but remember, traitor, you have them. However this unhappy war mi ate, never presume to come near my door never send us a word. Yon are not even dead to me: you are ax though you never existed. Ido not say good-bye—any inore than I would to a stone oF a stic “And then the ghost continued ahead—on its own hock: ‘I went through the war, Jim, as bravely as Leould, and tried to do my duty. Bat it bore bard on my home. Long before it was over my wife was deud, my dearest friends | killed or self-exiled and—is it any wonder if I 7 should hail death as a re **Pell me about my you know whether the} know- . ‘And just then a girl an’ a feller came along spoonin® and I roused up, an’ the ghost was her and mother. Do hate me? Do you memory, in bein’ able to repeat all that. Do suppose a spirit, just from the eternal apt to stand t’other side of a fence post from you, with its elbow up on one o’ the rails, an’ ve you its war record? From all I've ever fecrd concernin’ the’ ghost Pop'lation too dignified to say much. seems more to be in the aj 4 ou tived out, an’ ready for anap, that'ere fence post y appeared to them. Her cheeks were pale, her blue eyes open as widely as their env! ment would permit. She been running, and breathed heavily. Her doll was clutched fightly in one of her little white hands, with utter disregard to its comfort, “Oh, I suw it—I saw it—I saw it!” she gauped. ‘Maw what, you little desertin’ daughter of the regiment?” laughed Russell. “The ghost!” exclaimed the child, her blue eyes flashing with unheulthy excitement. “It came out of the old tomb. It kind of rose won't hurt you. “I guess you won't if I can help it,’ and ran right toward where Lheard you culling me. “You nee what a bud effect your spook stories have on the infant mind,” said Russell, jokingly. “The little thing don't mean to lie, but she lis- tened to every word you said, an’ now she’s got the ghost distemper herself.”” ‘Maybe the little girl saw the same one that I di” suggested barker. : explains both cases. P'raps you've entered your second childhood, Barker. But, after all, I'm inclined to think we ean explain the whole’ thing so far as you are concerned on the ground that spirits is apt to call forth spirits.”” Barker shook his head in half-sulky silence, and they left the little settlement of the dead, with its buried fragments of humanity, its mists and its mysteries. CHAPTER IL. The little village and surrounding townships turned out very creditably the next day to decorate their soldiers’ graves. ‘The sun was as bright and life-giving as if it had never seen a faneral; there were two or three companies of soldiers, commanded by numerous officers, one of whom bad succeeded in becoming colonel in time of profound pence; there was a brass band, which might have reconciled the whole pulation of the cemetery to death, could they Bate awakeued long enough to hee? oue tunc, and there was a large number of citi caring particulariy for public di but many of whom kept their offerings to the country in this little place and now wanted to typify their thoughts and feelings toward them with the most beautiful flowers that it was pos- ble to find. Among these was a_ sturdy, firm-featured old man who might have been a Cromwell, a Bis- marek or a Gladstone if blessed and cursed with the same environments, who hid many of the elements of greatness within him, more ir nse, perhaps, from the limited scope of their display. Many of these were shown with the features of this old semi-mountaincer, bat that distinctly New England produc i ticn—was the most prominent one. The re soiland unbending climate of his li home had conspired to make this the most no- ticeable portion of his nature. His wife was a motherly woman who had evi- dently started out in life with a dispo unqualitied sweetness, but had from year to year abwocbed some of the grani band’s character. It is impossible for a sharply g conple to live long together in pe: withont obtaining more or less of cach other's qualities. Nor hed her own influence been idle all these years. There was un occasional iine of jess utmong the marks of time and emo- tion in the old man’s face, as if they had erept there with inild but dogged perseverance and clung in spite of everything. sighed the motherly “Poor, poor Albe:t. as they drove toward the cemetery. ow whether they will let us decorate ve or not. There was xo much talk agai even our burying him hore when we brought bim home from the eouth.” “But he was buried here, all the old man, bringing his tecth \¥ cometery lot, and there was fanatics in town to. keep oar own flesh and blood out of it.” And the same oid hand that forwarded a father’s curse to the only son because he had joined the confederate army came down with a crash upon the arm of the ron seat. in d nse of that ne #on—or, r, of the old gentleman him elf. Poor, poor Albert,” repeated the old_ lady. doing what he did. He rat el of whether he even thought he ight,” objected the old man, giving his favorite ‘road horse two or three gentle but decided touch>s with the whip. “Im. inclined to think ( ) that he his ¢ And his been done right.” ‘The old gentleman's counte- nance and manner showed that ready to do the thin! The wife did not answer; a sudden little storm of tears hud swept across the bine sky of her eyes. It came as it having a right to, for it was a daily visitor. Every mother knows that there had not been a single w: she had not thought of her enly ‘Well, we're here,” said last in a dry tone. He did not like display and could not help making little sharp, biting, Yankeeish remarks when he saw it. the soldiers are all ont,” he muttered. “It's the same old story again—war in the time of peace. It's queer hor € who love to put ro0s e cir hats and march about whenever they carf get the chance. Some of these chaps know ho thing: a dee She had brought along a few bouquets to piace upon the soldiers’ graves, and a fine one had been re- served for that of the son whom :he had loved and lost. She could not bear to this other soldiers getting wreaths and her son hay- ing none. And yet, in conversation that morn- ing. her stern offi husband hid decided that the boy was not worthy of any flowers; tha! al- thougn the young man i he should bo maade an example of even in his grave It was the Roman father act brought into New England. ‘The procession was a good one for a countr: and the soldiers made a very eredi ab display. There was also among their number a society of Odd ) nen and along line of school boys and girls—ail anxious todo their. share in decozating aves of the dend heroes. Although it liday, it was amournfal one, and seemed mueh like a great open-air funeral. The day had not then become as it hasin many since, a leisure time of pleasure and festivity the graves were too new; the deaths were all recent. ‘This field of the dead was not all filled with tombs. A portion of it on one side was. still vacant country, very suggestive to tho:e who might some time reside in it, Part of it was in deed occupied today, but by living people. small stand had been erected for speakers and musicians, and this was surrounded by the large crowd that gathered. The glee club turned for the day into adirge elub, sung a ce- tion, half hymn, half song, praising the fallon fered. by most last; another song was mit, entitled Nation Weeps and Mourns Today,” in which the comedian basso seemed singularly out of »» and then occurred a hush—almost as unele, Nathaniel Worden. now pronounce his jeulogy,’ after which wre will be decorated by floral committee ‘tone: ve upon my list is that of Flenry h his = was, could he have heard them. fit, an’ he fit fer his country an’ not ag'in it, as some that's in here did,” shouted the old, man, “Tain't anything to sy ag'in them that tit in it, only, if they hadn't fit ag’in it we jouldn’t hev had to be here today, weepin’ fur them that fit fur it. An’ now the boy lies there with only a third part of his life lived out:an’ though I’m his uncle, as hadn't ought to be, I want to say right here thatit's my opinion that if we had all the flowers that grows on the sides of every mountain in sight 0’ this—this—camp o’ the dead thero wouldn't beany more than enough to tell his praises. Yes, friends and feller citizens, he fit fer his country, an’ not ag’in it.” Half & dozen pretty girls composing com- mittee No. 1, now eagerly grasped huge bouquets and disappeared in the mists, to decorate’ the grave of Henry Worden. “The necond grave upon my list,” continued the marshal, ‘‘is that of Samuel Taylor. His cousin, Peter Taylor, who was in the army with him, will pronounce his eulogy Peter Taylor rove, his eyes full of tears. He tried hard to speak, but could not for a time. At last he blurted out: “There wasn’t no Johnny ever seen stitch 0” his coat tails, now I tell ye. He was a looki right torge ‘em all the ight he died — The speech here broke down, but ite frag- ments fell upon the people with more effect than symmetrical oratory could have done. Many of the honest t dead man’s mother ly; few of the other speeches which followed produced so great an effect, though some were studied and ite. st the marshal of the day looked again at his paper and sai “The next name on the list is Albert Suther- It was put here against my advice by the majority of the committee, but it's my duty to You all know he was a soldier—on the I don't know whether there's any re wants to suy any eulogy on him or The silence that followed seemed the deepest that had ever been known in that cemetery. Nobody bad a word to ray; the very atiline seemed to the mother of the young man a v@ce erying against him. The mist among the peo- ple and the graves grew deeper and deeper. All at once the hard old father rose a around in front of the stand. He known and respected. and_ liked as one might like a cold, bracing winter day, and Yhe people all listened to him. His voice was tigm, and this made the occasicnal slight falterings in it all the more noticeable and pathetic. “My friends and neighbors,” is one of the most there have been plenty of ‘en of ‘em as I've got older. I here today, and still T for it’s the duty of everybod. their country on such some of these bo} rons, -hearted old fellow, and my nature, I suppose, is more oF less strewn with rocks, but there wasn’t a single one of these soldiers went down into the south coun- try y th him, though my body was too old to do so. You all know that Albert, whose name has just been read here, was down south when the war began teaching school, and had married a very sweet, hand- rome sonthern girl, according ‘to her’ photo- graph, which he sent me. Friends and neigh- bors, I don’t deny that Iwas proud of my son when he was among us. Who wouldnt have been? But he went into the wrong army (although he elaimed he had a good excuse for it), but it’s my opinion no man ever had a good excure for fighting against his country. If-+le more go than I can tell, and I di . put him away out of my hear. and wrote and told him so. I kept the feelin, all through the war, but when the new# cific that he was dead I couldn’t help having him brought home, aud here he is in this graveyard, And somehow I find, now the ‘war is throngh, — ths fhe ol feelings keep coming back to me which I had before he left home. Something keeps saying He wasn't entirely to blame; there es to every question, even if one is the biggest.” He seems more and more like a son, and less and not junt vor of my won, mistake im life, bu: before that he ight, honest, manly fellow. He was father necd have and his mother loved him—' ‘The mother commenced sobbing quiet]; deeply. ‘These were the ti: had heard her husband sp Ever. he said, “this in my life, and more and more didn’t want to be and I loved were my own hs * i of bao gg dl for ody was listening intently, pain- rene The tld inan “We—we have a few flowers here, whic! ted, we would like to lay on his gr The old man broke down for the first time in his history. hole company did the rame, A revulsion of feeling o: the the revelation of a feeling that already existed came over them They had all liked Albert when he was they seemed to enier into the same Three young granddaughter, emaining Sutherland lot. assemblaj n frightened, then broke ‘The ghost of Albert Sutherland out of the mist and stood before of the day, who had just said in his speech, “So fast was our cause, that one northern 1 easily put to tlight two con- federates,” leaped headloug from the vack of and ran, even at right of she ghost h aaly written oration followed him, throw- instruments in eve ‘The Clab were n cral_publie indulged in a siampede. and Parker retreated a few steps, formed ra stood iu th i Sutherland held his groun glared nt the new comer. But the m nearer and nearer to the apparition. not seer afraid of walked up d and put her hand upon its shoulder. Albert, Albert,” she n prise, but ive way : her hand, as a well’ reg slated appa have done. It pat two very substantial arms around her, ki-sed her, and called her “mother” | for the ficst time in many years. h, my poor boy. Dega weer ing piteously aguin as” soon 98 ohe reatfeed that he was ali ‘And so you are not dead at all,” the murmured. ‘Poor, poor boy! Why, we have you buried out there in our lot, an some young ladies are Putting flowers upon you now! . ital,” be buried was marked Wi.b my name and number by mistake, When ou fully seut for me; they forwarded that 'y, or what little was left of it, supposing it was mine; and it is now poor Put O'Connor that the ‘girls are with flowers out yonder. Meanwhile, the Roman father, whose square, hard head had not supposed for an instant his newly found son was a ghost, had slowly come up to him, deliberately oor sainted | Indies fe to force back the tear pearls from caskets of her eyo3, “You who jilted me—who scorned me—who really sent me south" dott FOU found some one yon liked better lown there,” she replied, still pressing back the “and you married her. loveliest—that is, one of the loveliest women I ever knew.” ‘This little outburst of half spite, half loyalty, affected the governor's granddaughter differ ently from what it would have a smaller nature. She merely replied “I don’t blame you. Some of these southern are vt ood and winsom “And you,” continued the ex-Yankee con- federate, ‘you went and became engaged to a Boston dude because he had a few tea chests of money. This also pleased the New Englanébeauty. She did not bridle, or say or imply that that was her.ownaffair. She answered simply and half laughingly “If being proposed to fifty-two times by a young man and refusing him fifty-three ix coming engaged to him, then you are right.” ‘But what could Ido?” asked Albert,gloomily. “T had to have love! You would not give it to me. She was a sweet, lovely woman. You re- member, you always’ were raving about the book ‘David Coppesfield.’ She and I read it together, and I called her my Agnes. I had told hyr about you—we had nothing apart fram each other—and she called you my ‘D 4 Only, the used to say, long before she di laughing wearily, for she was never very well, ‘Yon married your Agnes (as you mistakenly call me) first. “If anything happens to me you must go back and tell her that T don't believe you ever understood her—that if I had known her I should have loved her and she would not have disliked me—tell her——"* The tear pearls were now having their own way in the prond eyes of the governor's grand- daughter. “Have you her picture?” she inter- rupted softly ‘he young man produced it from next his heart. “The northern beauty bent over the southern one. One glance told the quick- witted and deep-hearted girl that her innocent and unconscious rival might some time in the great future be one of her dearest friends. She insed the picture passionately. sister,” she murmured. Ai “She is going home with me. You may come for her tomorrow evening—if you wish. Now you must talk with your parents—and your old ends-—all of whom are ready to greet you indly. Everybody gathered around Arthur Suther- land and wished him_ wi even the sun came out again and raluted him. It was the first time that the village ever drew a long breath and realized that the war was over. The band guthered up their ghost-scattered instrument: nd plaved “Hail Columbia,” “Dixie's Land and “The Star Spangled Banner.” all within five minutes; but did not succed in raising any more ‘of the de: Margie, the “daughter of the regiment,” recovered from her fright and made close__ friends with the reformed specter. ‘ybody seemed happy, and with mingled feciings of joy and ness to heaven for so suddenly straightening the tangled threads of his life, the confederate ghost went homeward with his rejoicing father and mother, com- mencing a new life and a new career. RIDING Women Easier Than to Teach—Cheaper to Hire Than to Own a Horse, SC\OMEN LEARN TO RIDE MoRE quickly and casily than men,” said Washington's most popular riding master to a Stan writer. “Why that should be so I cannot exactly tell, but my impression has always been that they acquire anything more readily than the opposite sex, possibly because they give more undivided attention to. whatever they are engaged at. Very often a Indy will become a fair rider with only fifteen or twenty lessons, up |whereas a man efter twenty-five or thirty les sons will sometimes know less of the art of equitation at the end than he did at the begin- ning. Easiest of all to teach are children, who fre- quently get a fair eat anda pretty good notion of riding in eight or ten lessons. With riding it issomewhat as with swimming—in youth it is learned with mugh less effort and is never after- ward forgotten. grown person who has understood in childhood how to manage a horse is always at home on the back of such an ani- mal, thovgh many years have elap:ed since mounting one. “The most difficult persons to instruct in the art of riding are those who been ‘at home in the saddle all their lives,” having be tomed to the mz parts or on the plains. They think they know it all, but the only thing they understand is how to gallop. Of the mode of equitation pro; for parks and the avenves of a hi no notion whatever. They are h than if they had never wat ina saddle before, . to begin by unlearning most know. In’ this respect riding is like dancing. for any dancing master will tell part of his work is to make relinquish the wrong — steps they are apt to_b: previously acquired. It is almost impossible in gny cases to induce individuals who have been used to riding to shorten their stirrups and adopt the correct method for the English sad- dle. Of course the English style of riding is the only proper one from the point of vfw of fahion, Even the French have imitated it closely. papi and style which HORSE AND RIDER. “It is always an important matter that rider and horse should be suited to each other. For example, a short and stout man finds a big, round-barreled beast a very uncomfortable mount, because his in the saddle is only from the thigh to the knee, whereas the tail ‘and thin man’ has a grip from. thigh to calt. Accor the latter should have the bi fal, while the former should bestride aslim and well-bred horse. Grace and cl ng are tou great extent dependent on the individual; no amount of teaching will render a clumsy person gracefal on horseback or on foot. In one way women are harder on horses than men, because their weight is not so evenly distributed. On the other hand, men average at least thirty pounds heavier and ride faster; but they exercize better judgment as to gait. ' A woman, through sheer ignorance, will sometimes spoil a horse, “Once in a while it hapj spoils one of my horses by hard riding. In such a case Idemand payment for the animal. When I hire ont a beast worth $200 for £3 n_afterncon I havea right to expect that it shall be returned to me in good condition. It seems to.me that it ise mistake for any person of moderate means to keep his own horse in ns that a customer can be no doubt that hir- | 1, with ocoatermouts, $250. The wages of a about | $40 8 month; fair saddle horre, costs about are THINGS MORE ATTRACTIVE THAN FIONTINO— WHY THEY DESERTED AND THE MEANS TAKEN To REPRESS THE EVIL—A CURIOUS GALLERY OF PORTRAITS, A™x UP IN THE TOPMOST ATTIC OF the War and Navy building is stored away, quite out of sight, a very curious and interesting collection of photographs. They are tin types, 600 and odd in number, and are fastened with tacks in rows upon three big parallelograms of plank. Beneath each one is an inscription tell- ing a story of the war, for the pictures are those of deserters from the federal armies during the rebellion. This assemblage of likenesses includes only those gathered by a single provost marshal. To held the photographs of all the men who de- serted from the ranks of the Union during the war a great many large rooms would be re- quired. When one considers the feelings of patriotism that are supposed to have animated northern hearts during the mighty civil strug- gle, all beating with one universal throb for the preservation of the country, it is painful to think of the fact that from the beginning to the end of that period of civil strife 268,000 men deserted from the stars and stripes. The faces in the collection of tin types de- scribed afford a strange study. In not a few of them one distinctly recognizes the criminal type. Most of these represent bounty jumy who make a business of desertion, runni from one regiment for the purpose of enlisting, in another, and thus obtaining by fraud repay- ment several times over for their patriotism, Tnaxmuch as $300 was offered to each fresh re- eruit from October, 1863,to May, 1864, this form of industry was sufficiently profitable to afford inducements to the unscrupulous. One fellow whose picture is tacked to the planks is set down in the memorandum beneath us baving Aeserted no less than twenty-three times, al- though he was evidently hardly more than a youth. His name was Patrick Gallagher. On the other hand. there are many faces in this lit- tle gallery which are decidedly prepossessing, THE RECORD OF DESERTERS. x The number of men recorded as deserters is considerably in excess of what it should be, in- asmuch as it was swelled by the names of many stragglers and other persons who were unavoid- ably absent from duty, owing to accidents or unreported disability. It is estimated that only about 200,000 soldiers forsook the nation’s flag during the war deliberately and of their own free will. These latteP figures seem la enough, but it has been correctly said that “no cause is so just or so beloved that war in its be- half will not be attended with desertion by its defenders.” Many causes besides cowardice and indifference to duty are operative in such matters—not least of them love and anxiety for kindred and other dependents at home, for whose sake even « patriot may sometimes be in- duced to run away. The experience had_by the United States re- specting desertion and the means of preventing it was got during the rebellion at great cost. Along time passed before it came to be real- zed that there was but one way to deal effect- vely with the evil—namely, by the exercise of the utmost severity. So long as lenient meas- ures were applied men dropped out of the rank: by thousands, undeterred by fears of punish- meng. Lives sacrificed, battles lost and conse- quent prolongation of the struggle were the fruits of want of vigor in treating the trouble in the early stages of the war. Thus merey to those who tan away was really a great cruelty to those who remained true to the cause. Among the causes for desertion was the fact that in the beginning of the con‘lict a majority of the vol- DESERTERS’ STORIES. Another evil brought about by desertions was the discouragement of recruiting by stories which the deserters spread respecting the alleged horsh treatment and unnecessary hard- ships impored upon them by officers in co mand. It is undeniable that the large bounti offered gave encouragement to runaways, and the maintaining of so costly a system for se- curing fighting men would have ruined the country financially after a while. Therefore it is contended that a better plan to adopt in the event of another war would be to do away with bounties and grant higher pay to volunteers, who would thus be enabled to’ make some sort of provision for their families left behind. Naturally individuals who had never- exy rn military discipline were apt to find it irksome, and it is not surprising that the yarns told by deserters of cruelties which "they were obliged to undergo should have done harm. For example, the accounts they gave of having been “tied up by the thumbs”—a compara ely mild punishment. for .refractoriness were construed as signifying “hung up by the thumbs,” a very different and extremely’ bar- barous performance, BEFORE THE WAR. Prior to the beginning of the war the army regulations gave a reward of $10 for the arrest and delivery of a deserter, Such arrests were ustslly made by the police of the cities for the sake of the reward. During the spring and summer of 1861 large bodies of volunteer troops were called into service and desertions became very frequent. Accordingly, there should have been an increase of the rewards given; but, on the contrary, an order was issued from the adjutant general's office September 7, Is61, reducing the reward for the capture of a doverter to, $5, which was to cover all expenses | involved. ‘This action, intended as an economy, Teel extremely expensive in the long run. t effectively put « stop to arrests, and the mis- chief grew apace. ~ THE PROVPST MARSHALS AND DESERTERS, Several general orders followed at intervals for collecting stragglers and deserters, &c., but it was not until March 8, 1863, that anything really effectual was done. On that date Con- gress passed the first enrollment act, making it the duty of a provost marshal general in Wash- ington to maintain correspondence with pro- vost marshals in every congressional district pecting deserters and means for their appre- hension. ‘The law required all officers in com- mand of regiments and_ battalions not attached tx to report each month the deser- from their commands during the month 8. ‘They were obliged to make out lanks, giving the name, description, residence and probable whereabouts of each such ‘bentee, ‘These reports were duly classified at the oitice of the provost marshal general in Washington and information was sent to the provost marshals in the various congressional districts about the runaways who might be e: cted to be found,jn their respective neighbor- woods, The provost marshals were ordered to arrest the delinquents when they could be found, REPORTS FROM THE FIELD. At the beginning it was found very difficult to get the commanding officers in the field to send their reports of desertions with regularity. Obviously, they were very busy with other things, and such clerical matters fatigued them. However, a way of getting over that trouble was quickly discovered, orders being issued to the effect pene rot = oficers as failed to respond shot until responses were received. After the enrolment act of March passed there t law made cannot get a good one for less. Feed coste $10 | ing a month, shoeing from €3 to $4 a month, and there are other which mount’ up. Young men here in sometimes club to- gether and hire one stable and a man for five or six horses, ‘That method is an economy, but it is not nearly so cheap as hiring. ‘THE RISK OF THE HORSE. “You see, your horse is apt to get sick or go lame at any time, thus throwing it out of use H HEP Ha é i! i atl F ? 3 fit BL Ee an, belt, binding tightly “to the ure up} & narrow aj of striped woulen homespun, very brilhast in color. A kerchief is usually worn om the head and the feet are habitually bare. On Sundays | and fete days tho girls exchange the coarse garments for others of choicer texture, the chemise being fine and carefully pleated and the apron of mull or muslin, delicately embroid- ered with white. Tall red morocco boots, with yellow heels and soles and curious pointed toes, adorn or rather disfigure the feet, and around the neck are hw many rows of gaudy glass beads. The hair is elaborately plaited ina broad band, which i» brought over to the forehead and then turned back This is held in place by dozens of pins with ornamental = and all along the edges of the braid behind is @ thick row of bits of @ fine green aromatic herb, while in — date Healt ot the back, as well as around e . bright-colored niume, marigolds and other flowers are skillful ly arranged. On their wedding day they cover their beads with @ wonderful square structure, more like a Pastry cook's piece montee than @ bonnet, wear an ample white lace shoulder cape, a brilliant scarlet petticoat, with white lace apron and tall red boots. "This dress is pre- served with jealous care and is never duced except on Sundays and holidays. men’s costume consists of loose linen trousers, like a divided skirt,a full tunic, a waistcoat with silver buttons, hussar boots and a small round hat, Both sexes have for an outer gar- ment either a sheepskin cloak or a great coat ge | of very thick felt-like white woolen, Sith broed square collar, and sleeves either sewed up at hoo conta, and tan the, dheopeineleaka re ese Coats, anc Iso. in are often richly and gaudily embroidered. ———-e-—___— ‘Two Poker Hands in Tennessee. From the Pittsburg Dispatch. He was a quiet-looking elderly man, in a pas- toral sort of black broadcloth suit and a felt hat with a broad brim, such as are worn by “colonels” and “majors.” Next to him in the car sat two young men, who were telling stories about personal experiences on the road. One of them related with much gusto an en- counter which he had recently had with @: Ate western man, the weapons being cards. Whe game was poker, the special occasion was that old familiar “big jack pot” which #0 often figures in profane history, and two principals were each armed with straight flushes.“ a dollar limit game,” remarked the young man, “and we bet sixty-seven times, and then I called him. He hada sequence high, and Thad one i have heard the old man listened with great attention to the story, and at its conclusion he ex- cwtimed with much candid astonishment: “You called’ him!" The youngster blushed and acknowledged his guilt. “ “Well! well!” said the old man, ing his head, “these times is suttenly not what they usen tubbe. You see, I cum from Tennessee, and we an't up to this way er doin’ things. Why, I'm playin’ « band yit thet wuz dealt to my pap in'57. Him an’ ole Jedge Dubbin of Murfreesboro, they set into a game one night in Sep- tember of "57, and they bet, an’ ‘ an’ bet. An’, when they run otter cash, they bet mules, an’ then horses, an’ then niggers, gn’ ‘at las’ they tuk go bettin’ acres of an an ten they run outer everything, an’ it was agreed that the han’s shud be os in. sealed envellups an’ marked un’ kept in vault of the bank till both on’em got more stuff. Well, it went on that way off an’ on till the war cum, and the old had died and pop was killed at Seven ‘ines, an’ then young Jim Dubbin he tuk his ole man’s place an’ I tuk dad's. Well, gen’ we're jist bettin’ yi it and there ain't no signs of quittin’ suttinly like to see them hans of pop's an’ ole Jedge Dubbin’s afore I die, ‘and he sighed a long sigh of patient resignation, while the two youngsters and the other man in the smoking compartment him as one worthy of veneration even if it was only as a liar, e+ —___ Solving the Domestic Problem. From Truth. Mrs. Morris—“Don’t you find it hard to get a domestic’ Mrs, Essex—“I don't try to get a domestic. I get the imported.” ———— ee ASTINGING REBUKE. Or the Adventure of Johnny and the Bee. From Judge. e NOODLES GETS INTO TROURLE. Being Mistaken for a Colored Lady, Ke Su fers as to Clothing. SST TPON MY WORD, IT SEEMS TO MT that some of the adventnres I get iano are extremely embarrassing,’ sid Noodles last, night at the Platypus Club. “Right you aro, dear boy,” echoed balf a dozen of the other fellows, tell us, what is the last “Just wait until I light my cigar, please. Really, you know, it's rather paint the circumstances. I believe th: attention to a suit of clothes which I yurchascd from a capital tailor in New York the of day. You know the one L mean—the pale plaid which T had so mucf# trouble in matching with a necktie? “Why, certainly,” responded the boys in uni- continued Noodles, twirling his may- tache, “I think it is pretty mach the cheese my self, However, I should rather put it in the past tense than in the sadness of the u thought “Must have been over your head, Simpkins radely. ing a remarks alking along om the sa: —en alwead, ai nce has tanght me that th young woman is extremely apt te be deceptive. Most of the girls 1 have pursued at varios times in such wise have tnrned out to be ex ceptionally ugly frem the obverse point of v ‘ever heard of the obverse of giti,” eug- gested Boggs gravely. mind. Ifgon will allow me te con- tinue I will remark That just os Iwas begin- ing to accelerate my pace for the purpose of overtaking the supposed fair one a gate in a fence that I was passing was suddenly flung open and the entire contents of what my very lérge pan of dish wa! reeily upon my pwenwon.” OF Panes, Felinquiching all thoughts of the youn Wy abientl, whil mined to im an instint, and I hoard a Voice from the other side say Pleasantly soaked, ind enoug! : ve afew cloths ax quickly as possily which to wipe myself off. if you feel any hy tation about op tho gute you may chuck them over the fence, The mild way in which I spoke indnood the African female who had thrown the unbar the portal and admit m where she and two small pic bly her offspring, procee slope a considerably worse off when they bal than when they began. Ise awful grieved, sab, apologetically, as she removed some soap frag ments from my coat pocket: took vou for a colored indy a, sed indy who lives y. She an’ frien's. Two or t'ree times we've had » serup= ple in de street, an’ more'n half ob de back bair she's wearin’ today once b'longed to me. have her ‘rested Tuesdia up Saturdays. De rest ‘You are not on speaking terms,’ I eng- gested. “ ‘No, sah, We throw t'ings. Teeon hor go by jus’ five minutes ago with «a shawl ober ber haid, like as if she was goin’ to de ¥ shop on de corner. So, s'posin’ dat he'd soon come back, I fetched de’ pan ob slops an’ says to de ‘You, Frederick William an’ Caroline Evangelina, open de gate quick when I tel you ‘an’ we ll spoil de looks ob dat colored Indy when. she comes along.” . “So you were lying in wait!’ Texclaimed, better undorstanding of the ocourrence dawa- ing upon me, ‘es, sah. We s'posed she'd be back inside er "bout fo’ minutes. n’ by we thought we heerd her footprints, an’ jus’ as dey got oppe- site de gute— “‘You let me have it in the neck.’ I inte rupted. ‘While appreciating the effectiveneas of your method of organizing an ambuscade, I might perhaps suggest that its operation could be with advantage a trifle less indiscriminate, For example, some sort of watch tower might be improvised from which Caroline Evangelina or—er—Frederick William would be to survey the neighborhuod and give and timely notice of the approach of friend or foe. ‘This moist substance on the brim of my hat take to bea remnant of mashed potato. Will indly make an effort to rem: ? continned Noodles, light “after being cleaned up as Je under the circumstances Lonce more Two doors from the nearest corner I found « re- markably fat colored woman seated on the front well ax was pra: ting my own woos in part, I ask Feould do to relieve her pray tell me what may have some- thing done for it if pow “My remark seemed t and she sat down on the steps again, #till be ing hysterically bile the: her eyes, At last she recovered herself to some extent and said ““Rhe t'rowed de slops onto y “ “She certainly did,” i admit ““Dey was meant fer me ‘Oh, golly! I shall bnst « Then she began sereans “ ‘So you are the other party to ment of which T am the victim wud the woman, jot getting any farthe Yhlsed heap of sense I pursued my by the back streets save from two messenger boys engag: playing top, one of whom pointed at me and remarked: ‘Say, Billy, that's the mckest-looking dude I ever see. “Billy looked me over while he wound his top and said: “He's been sleepin’ all night im the gutter. Where's a cop’ “At present I am wondering id suit of clothes will look when ome from the cleaner's.”” ses “a Killing Them Didn't Matter, From the Boston Journal In Dr. Peter's book telling how he fought ble way in Africa he narrates a curious story of the killing of two natives by Lieut. Tiedemann not far from Victoria Nyanza, The white ex- pedition had been received with much hos pitality by Wachore, an important eultan, whe invited Peters and Tiedemann to his sudicnee hall, where, sursounded by his chiefs and women, he received om. ste imprees his guests with his power A on a large collection of the weapons used by his warriors, including 4 considerable num- ber of rifles and other guns. Among them was « Martini rifle, which Wachore handed to Peters xamine. | Peters, after examining the