Soldiers' record, 1870-04-02

              f ^
ONE FLAG, ONE LAND, ONE KEART, ONE RAND, ONE NATION, EVERMORE!
YOL. II. HARTEORD, OONK., SATURDAY, APRIL 2, 1870. KO. 39.
iouvs at iome.
O U R C O U N T R Y.
Dearer yet tlian son or siro,
Than the love of heartlistouc higher,
Next to God and altar fue
la our country's woal.
Born 'mid war's stern tramp and tread.
Witli the blood of hrave hearts fed,
By the God of battles led.
Strong our nation's life.
Not for glory did we call
Bravo young hearts from hut, and hall,
'Gaiusib a foe to win or fall,
But for Freedom's reign.
Not for glory did they.stand,
Not for home and tather-hind.
That great-hearted,, noble baud;
But for human right.
On our soil the crimson stain,
In our hearts the pang of pain;
Treason called for peace in vain;
Came the prayer too late.
From our prairie's flowery sweep.
From our mountains' erat^gy steep,
Singing o'er the ocean's deep,
One united voice.
Never on our pilgrim soil,
Never Avhere the fi-eeuien toil.
Shall the tyrants chain uncoil.
Die we, or live free !
Homes have grieved and hearts have bled.
Love aud brave young lives have sped.
Bitterly we mourn our dead,
But the day is ours |
Boldly on our storm-swept sky,
Still our starry banners fly;
Clear our eagle's conquering cry,
^eace and victory!
T H E M A N A T T H E DOOR.
"No tramps here,", said I, and I shat
the door in his face. The wind blew so
J could hardly do it, and the sleet \vas
beating on the pane and the bare trees
were groaning and moaning as if they
suffered in the storm.
"No tramps here, I'm a lone woman,
and I'm afraid of 'em^"
Then the man 1 hadn't seen yet for the
dark, went away from the door—champ,
champ, champ, champ came the man back
again,and hej<nockedat the door—knock-ed
not half so loud as he had before—and
I opened it hot and angry. This time I
saw his face, with yellow brown hair,
cropped close, and great staring blue eyes;
and he put his hand against the door and
held it open.
"How far is it to the next house,
ma'am ?" said ho.
"Three miles or more," said I.
"And that is not a tavern ?"
"No," said 1 ; "no drinks to be got
there ; it's Miss Mitten's and she's -set
against tramps as I am."
"I don't want to drink." said the man,
"but 1 do want food. You needn't be
afraid to let me in ma'am. I've been
wounded and am not able to walk far, and
my clothes are thin, and it's bitter cold.
Pvc been trying to get lo my parents at
Greenbank, whore I can rest until I'm
better ; and all my money was stolen from
me three days ago. You needn't ))o a-fraid;
just let me lie before the fire, and
only give mo a crust to keep me from
starving, and the Lord will bless you foi"
it."
And then ho looked at me with his mild
blue eyes in a way that would have made
mo do it, if it hadn't been that I had seen
so much of those impostors. The war
was just over, and every beggar that came
along said he was a soldier traveling
home, aud had been wounded and robbed.
One that I had been fool enough to help
limped away out of my sight as he thought,
and then, for 1 was at the garret window,
shouldered his crutches and trumped it
with the strongest.
"No doubt yuur pocket is full of mou-ey,"
said I, "and you only want a chance
to rob and murder me. Go away with
you."
Drusilla, that's my niece, was baking
short cake in the kitchen. Just then she
came to the door and motioned with her
mouth to rne, "Do let him stay, aunty,"
and if I hadn't had good sense I might,
but I knew better than a chit of sixteen.
''Go away with you, ' says I, louder
than before. "I won't have thib any
longer."
And he gave a kind of a groan, and
took his hand from the latch, and went
champ, champ, through the frozen snow
again; and I thought him gone, when there
he was once more, hardly with a knock
at all—a faint touch like a child's now.
And when I opened the door he (same
quite in, and stood leaning on his cane,
pale as a ghost, his eyes bigger than ever.
" v> ell, of all impudence," said 1.
He looked at me, and said he :
"Madam, I have a mother at Green-bank.
1 want to live to see her. I shall
not if I try to go further to-night."
"They all want to see their mothers,"
said I, and just then it came into my
mind that I hoped my son Charles, who
had been a soldier—an officer he had got
to be mind you—wanted to see his, and
would soon.
'I have been wounded, as you see,"
said he.
•'Don't go a showing me your hurts,"
saidl. "They buy'em, so they told me,
to go begging with now. I read the pa-pers.
I read the papers, I tell ye, and I'm
principled, so's our clergyman, agin giv-ing
anything, unless its through some well
organized society. Tramps are my abom-ination.
And as for keeping you all night,
you can't expect that of decent folks—
go 1"
Drnsilla camc to the door and said,
"Let him stay, aunty," with her lips a-e:
ain, but I took no notice.
So he went, and thi'^ time did not come
back, and I sat down by the fire, and list-ened
to the wind and sleet, and felt the
warm fire, and smelt the baking caHves
nd the kitchen stove ; and I ought to
have been very coniCoi table, but I wasn't.
Somethinngg seemed tugging at my heart
all the time.
I gave the tire a poke and lit another
candle to cheer myself by, and I went to
my work basket to get the sock I had
been knitting for my Oharlits, and as I
went to get it I saw something lying on
the floor. I picked it up. It was an old
tobacco pouch, ever so much like the one
I gave Charlie, with fringe around it, and
written on in ink, "C. F. to R. H.," and
inside was a bit of tobacco and an old
pipe, and a letter ; and when I spread it
out I saw at the top, "My dear son."
I knew the beggar must have dropped
it, and my heart gave one big thump, as
though it had been turned into a hammer.
Perhaps the story was true, aud he had
a mother. I shivered all over, and the
fire and the candles aj:d the nice comfor-table
smell might not have been at all, I
was so cold ar.d wretched.
And over and over again I had to say
to myself what I had heard our pastor
say so often, "Never give anything to
chance beggars, my dear friends, always
bestow your alms on worthy persons,
through well-organized societies," before
1 could get a bit of comfort. And what
an old fool I was to cry, I thought, when
I found my cheeks wet.
But I did not cry long, for as I sat
there, dash and crash, and jingle came a
sleigh over the road, and it stopped at
our gate, and I heard my Ohai-lie's voice
crying, "Hallo, mother !" And out I went
to the door and had him in my arms, my
great, tall, handsome brown son. And!
there he was in his uniform, with his pret-ty
shoulder straps, and hearty as if he had
never been through any hardships. Ho
had to leave me to put his horse up ; and
then I had by the fire again my own boy.
xVnd Drusilla, who had been up staij's and
had been crying—why, I wonder,—(;arao
down all in a flutter—fv)r they were the
in the midst of all, I felt a frightened
feeling come over me, and I knowed I'd
turned pale, for Drusilla said, "What is
the matter, Aunt Faii'fax ?"
I said nothing,but it was this. Kind o'
like the ghost of a step, going champ,
champ over the frozen snow ; kind o' like
the ghost of a voice saying, "Let me lie
on the flocr before the fiie, and give me
any kind of a crust; kind o' like seeing
some one that had a mother, dropping
down on the wintry road, and freezing
and starving to death there. That was
what it was, but I put it away and only
thought of Charlie.
We dievviip together by the fire when
tea was done, and he told us things a-bout
the war I'd never heard before. How
the soldiers suffered, and what weary
marches and short rations they sometimes
had. And he told me how his life had
been set upon and he was badly wounded;
and how at the risk of his own life, a fel-low
soldic^ had saved his, and carried
him away, fighting his path back to camp.
"I'd never have seen youbut for him,"
says my Cnarlie. "Andif there's a man
on earth I love, it is Rob Hadway—the
dearest, best fellow. We've shared each
othei-'s rations, and drank from the same
canteen many a time ; and if I had a
brothei',I couldn't think more of him."
"Why don't yon bring him home to see
your mother, (Jharlie V said I. '-Why,
I'd love him, too, and anything I could
do for him, for the man who saved my
boy's life, couldn't be enough. Send for
him, Charlie." But Charlie shook his
head and covered his face with his hands.
"Mother," said he, "I don't know
whether Kob Hadway is alive or dead to-day.
While I was still in the ranks he
was taken prisoner. And the prisons are
poor places to live in, mother; I'd give
my right hand to be able to do him any
good; but I can't find no trace of him.
And he has a mother, too ; she lives at
Greenbank—poor old lady. My dear,
good, noble Rob, the preserver of my life!"
And I saw Charlie nearly crying.
Not to let us see the tears, he got up
and went to the mantelpiece.
"Great heavens! what is this ?" And
I turned, and Charlie had the tobacco
pouch the man had dropped, in his hand.
"Where did this come from ?" said he.
'•I feel as though I had seen a ghost. I
gave this to Rob Hadway the day he sav-ed
me. We soldiers had not much to give,
you kno»v, and he vowed never to part
with it while he lived. How did it come
here, mother ?"
I fell back in a chair, white and cold,
and says I, "A wai.dering tramp left it
here, never your Rob. my dear, n.ever
your Rob. He must have been an impos-tor,
I would't have turned away a person
really in want. Oh ! no, no, no ; it is an-other
pouch, child ; not that, or he stole
it. A tall fellow with blue eyes and yel-low
brown hair, wounded, he said, and
going to his mother at Greenbank. Not
your Rob."
And Charlie stood staring at me with
clinched hands ; and said he, "It was my
Rob, it was dear old Rob who saved my
life, and you have driven him out in such
a night as this, mother. My mother, to
use Rob so !"
"Curse me, Charlie," said I, ''Curse
me, if you like ; I'm afraid God will
Three times ho asked only for a crust and
a place to lie, and I drove him away. I,
1—he's lying on the road now. Oh ! if
I had known ; oh ! if I had known."
And Charlie caught up his hat. "I'll
find him if he's alive," said ho. "Oh,
Rob ! my dear friend."
Aud then—I never saw the girl in such
a fiurry-~down went Drusilla on her
knees, as if she was saying her prayers.
and hungry and wounded, I put him iu
the spare chamber over the parlor, and 1
have been so frightened all the while."
"Lord blessyou, Drusilla," said Charlie,
and ''Amen," said I. And she getting
bolder went on, "And I took him up hot
short-cake and apple-sauce and tea," says
she, "aud I took him a candle, and a hot
brick for his feet, and told him to eat and
go to bed in the best chamber, Aunt Fair-fax,
with the white counterpane."
After this, Charlie, not being ungrate-ful,
nor poor either, helped Rob into busi-ness.
And he got over his wounds at last,
and grew as handsome as a picture, and
to-day a week, is going to marry Drusilla.
"I'd give you anything I have," said I
"and I won't refuse you even Drusilla,"
when he asked me, telling me he had lov-ed
her ever since she was so kind to him
on the night I've told you of.
And Charlie is to stand up with him,
I am to give Drusilla away, and Rob's
sister, from Greenbank, is to be brides-maid,
and I have a guess that some day
Charlie will bring her home to me, iu
Drusilla's place.
I don't drive beggars from the door
now, as I used to, and no doubt I'm im-posed
upon; butthis is whati say. "lletter
to be imposed upon alwaj s, than to be
cruel to one who is really in need of your
help. • And'I've read my Bible better of
late, and I know who says, "Even a;3 ye
have done it unto the least of these, ye
have done it unto me."
[From Lippincott's Monthly.]
T H E S A I L O R ' S W E D D I N G.
"Winds, blow safe, and winds blow strong.
Waft my sailor-boy over the sea ;
Haste, 0 Time ! nor let it be long.
Haste the wedding of Jamie and me."
"Swift, glad day, and swift, sweet night,
Fly o'er iny maiden beyond the sea :
Flowers bloom gay and iiowers bloom bright.
Bloom for the wedding of Jamie aud me."
Suns come up, and suns go down—
Low is the sailor-boy under the sea;
Maiden, thy knell is heard in the t o w n -
God speed the wedding of Jamie and thee!
A . E . P I I L S M J K Y.
THE Two SCROGGINSES.—Mr. John II.
Chisholm, who died in this city about
twenty years ago, was paying-teller of the
Farmers' and Mechanics' Bank for several
years before his death. He was a native
of South Carolina, and was about fifty
years of age at the time of his d ecease.
Mis fine social qualities made him very
popular. Among his other talents was
his great ability as a raconteur^ or relator
of anecdotes. One of his good stories
was the following, which was known a-mong
his friends as "The Two Scroggin-ses
:" An Irishman, who had been ab-sent
for some time on a fishing excur.«ion,
met one of his friends, who inquired of
him what luck he had. "Oh,"he replied,
"we had a most elegant time entirely."
•'NVho were of your party ?" asked his
friend. "There were five of us," was his
answer. "There was myself, one ; the
two Scrogginses, two ; 'Terry Toole,
three; Jim Kasin, four. There were
five of us. There was Terry Toole, one ;
myself, two ; the two Scrogginses, three ;
and Jim Kasin, four. There certainly
were five of us. There was Jim Kasin,
one ; Terry Toole, two ; myself, three j
and the two Scrogginses, four. It's very
strange that I can't remember who the
fifth man was ! There was myself, one :
Jim Kasin, two ; the two Scrojigiusesi
tiiree ; and Terry Toole, four; aud may
the divil fiy away with nie if I can recol-brother
and sister—and he kissed her,' and says she, "Thank God, I dared to do
and she kissed him, and then away she it!" And says to me, "0, aunt, I've
wont to set the table, aud the nice hot been trembling with fright, not knowing
things smoked on a cloth as white fis snow; what you'd say to me. I took him iu the
and how Charlie enjoyed them ! But once, kitchen way. I could not sec him so faint
lect who the fifth
coU\'i Magazine.
man was!" Lippm-
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