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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- THE ATLANTIC furnishes us classical entertainment. We find it totally unlike the other monthlies, yet always present-ing a pleasing and rich array of contents. Messrs. Fields & Osgood have happily suc-ceeded in making this monthly the best among the representatives o£Americau literature.
|Title||Soldiers' record, 1870-04-02|
|Uniform Title||Soldiers' record (Hartford, Conn.)|
|Subject||United States -- History -- Civil War, 1861-1865 -- Veterans -- Connecticut -- Newspapers; Hartford (Conn.) -- Newspapers|
|Description||Frequency: Weekly; Publication dates: Vol. 1, no. 1 (July 11, 1868)- ; Notes: Devoted to the interests of the soldiers and sailors of the late war.|
|Collection||Newspapers of Connecticut|
|Source - Location||Connecticut State Library microfilm, AN104.N6 C6692|
|Relation-Is Part Of||Connecticut military newspapers, 1862-1875|
|Publisher||W.F. Walker & Co|
|Rights||Digital Image © Connecticut State Library. All rights reserved. Images may be used for personal research or non-profit educational uses without prior permission. For permission to publish or exhibit, see Reproduction and Publication of State Library Collections, http://www.cslib.org/repropub.htm|
|Title-Alternative||Other title: Soldiers' record and Grand Army gazette; The soldiers' record|
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