Soldiers' record, 1869-03-20

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D e v o t e d t o t l i e I n t e r e s t s ot t h e S o l d i e r s a n d S n i l o r s o f t l x e l a t e W a r .
yoL. I. HARTEORD, COm., SATURDAY, MARCH 20, 1869. N O . 37.
at Dome.
O U R COUNTKY' S F L A G.
BY LYDIA L. A. VERV.
Our country's banner let them hear
Whose hiiudd are stronj^, wliose hearts are true,
FUng out its folds upon the air,
The red, the wliite, the blue.
The red, the blood our "Fathers shed,
Watering Fveedom's holy flowers,
That sprang beneath oppression's troad,
Thoy blossom round each lowly bed;
To guard those graves be ours !
The blue, the stars, are Freedom's heaven;
Would that it never more might wave
Above a land to bondage given.
Where toils one hopeless slave.
The wliite for peace, when Freedom reigns,
Wlien war and liloodshed are no more,
Wlicn harvests whiten all the plalus
With plenty as of yore.
Till then our banner let them bear.
Whose hands are strong, whose hearts are true!
Fling out its folds in southern air,
The red, the white, tiie blue.
Upon your march behold the red,
Our Fiithor's blood poured out of old !
Their patriotism is not dead.
Their ashes are not cold!
Their monument still cleaves the sky
Above the graves where martyrs sleep,
Pointing with granite finger hiuh.
The path their sons should keep !
Onward for Freedom and the right!
Let hands bo strons, let hearts be true J
'Tis for all coming titrie we fight.
Beneath the red, the white, the blue.
T H E R E I G I F O F P E A C E.
BY J . WAKREN WATSON.
No longer flows the crimson flood—
No brother sheds fraternal blood :
All strife and pain and discord cease—
We welcome back the reign of peace!
The cloud is past—our banner waves
Above & land where dwell no slaves !
Again each star appears in view—
God bless the men who wore the blue !
Hail, brothers, hail! for we are free.
From North to South, from sea to sea ;
Then let our thankfiil voices raise
This day a joyful hymn of praise !
The ones who fell 'mid leaden rain
At Bunker Hill died not in vain!
Again each star appears in view—
God bless the men who woro tho blue!
The Nation mourns her fallen braves,
Each stripe has cost ten thousand graves !
With tears each fold is consecrate.
And yet the price is none too <;reat!
The cloud is past—onr banner waves
Above a land where dwells no slaves!
Again each star appears in view—
God bless the men who wore the blue!
Atrain each star api>ears in view—
God bless the men who wore the blue!
M A D G E A D A I R.
BY GEIJDA KING.
PART TRILRD.
TIME sped on, and brought round tlie
adrennial decapitation of troops of
Government officials on both sides of the
Atlantic. Mr. Arthur Shaw being one of
the victims, he and his little family were
at home again. They h;id been in the city
but a few days, when one morning Madge
came in with a bright face.
"•it doesn't seem a month since we
went away. How 1 love the dear old city."
" So do I," said Kate. 1 almost hate
to go to Washington so soon,"
" How soon, Kate ?"
Next week, Arthur says."
" Next week," responded j\Iadg-o a little
regretfully. " I shall miss yon sadly."
''Missus! You ai'e going, too. Why,
Madge Adair, you don't think we've done
with you ?"
" Our contract is ended, you know."
Oh, Madge, you hurt nie."
" No, no. 1 didn't mean it. Indeed
Kate, you have been the dearest, kindest
friend 1 ever hatl since my own mother
died. You have almost made me forget
my orphanage, i have been so hapi)y with
you. JJut listen. 1 have been sheltered
so long, 1 am afraid I've grown too weak
to stand aloue as 1 did before ; I want to
try my strength again—perhaps I need
hardening—1 must go back to my old life.
But I will not forget that 1 have a home,
and a brother and sister. Indeed, you
mustn't bo cross, Kate."
But Kate scolded and pouted, until find
ing Madge was firm in her resolution, she
relented, and entered into her plans with
her usual good-nature. She went with
her in search of rooms, and would see her
fairly established before leaving. nd a
dainty little place they made of the two
small rooms ; a cosy nest, though one
must mount high to reach it.
And again Madge Adair was alone in
the city. She had seen her friends de-part
with a dim sense of being adrift a-gain,
and a flitting doubt whether she had
indeed done wisely in taking up this lone-ly
and mdependent life again, in place of
the gay season at Washington which Kate
had pictured so vividly. But it passed
directly. She knew that this was best,
and she set herself to her position.
With a .package of manuscript in her
hand she culled at the ofB,ce of Clapp and
Carey.
Mr. Carey received her with cool cour-tesy
and waited for her to disclose her er-rand.
" You do not remember me, sir ?"
" I do not—yes—I cannot recall your
name—excuse me ! Miss Adair," with a
sudden glow of cordiality in his manner.
" But you are so changed. Didn't re-cognize
you at first. Glad to see you.
Pray sit down."
He wheeled the leathern arm-chair
forward, and seated himself beside her
with such an unmistakable air of welcome,
that she m ide no scruple of detaining him
for a friendly chat.
The talk flowed into a literary channel,
of course, and Madge asked innumerable
questions about the. various authors whose
names had figured in the newspapers and
magazines of four years before. Some
had dropped out of sight, others had risen
above the Clapp and Carey level, having
served their apprenticeship, and some still
appeared regularly at their desk, the
hack-horses of the press plodding patient-ly
in the harness.
" And Donald Grey. To which class
does he belong ?"
"Grey—oh, he has been getting on.
You know him ?"
' Not personally. We had a brief cor-respondence."
"Ah, 1 will introduce you."
"Oh no, sir," cried Madge, quickly.
Just at that moment, Mr Carey's atten-tion
was anested by some one waiting in
the outer office, and with a hasty apology,
he went out.
Presently Mr. Clapp came in. There
was another friendly greeting, and Miss
Adair presented her manuscript.
Mr. Clapp said they would pass it over
to the editor-in-chief. He would prob-ably
read it in a week, at farthest.
As the door closed behind the lady, he
laid the package on the editor's desk.
The editor was Donald Grey. S-^ated
in his sanctum, he had heard every sylla-ble
of both conversations.
"Some of Miiis Adair's manuscript.
She used to be one of our best writers you
know."
"Yes, I had some correspondence with
her before she went to Europe."
"Ah, a bit of vantage ground for a
bachelor like you. She has developed
wonderfully—a splendid girl."
"If it is a 'coigne of vantage' I shall
not avail myself of it. Don't tell her who
I am when she calls again."
"Not tell her!'' exclaimed, Mr. Carey,
who had entered in time to catch the last
word. '•! came within an inch of spring-ing
an introduction upon you to-day."
'•A happy escape. Don't, I beseech
you, reveal to her that I bear the name of
Donald Grey. If you must give me a
name, call me Donald."
They promised.
PART FOURTH.
MADGE did notgodirectly to her rooms,
but turned hersteps towards the common.
Under the handsome old elms she met
Dr, Gurney.
^ Her heart gave a bound, and she spoke
his name joyously. He stopped, but
there was no recognition in his kind face.
You have forgotten me too 1 am I so
changed?—your little patient, Madge
Adair."
"To be sure—to be sure. How do you
do ?" and he shook her hand coi dially.
"Oh, I'm eminently healthy. You
wouldn't scold me now if you counted 4ny
pulse."
"I don't knew. You need looking af-ter."
"Then please look after me- I like it.
Come in and see me. I've something for
you. A Florence butterfly that I caught
myself. I knew you would care more for
his great, handsome, luzy wings, all black
and yellow and crimson, than you would
for -all the money I owe you," She fin-ished
the sentence with saucy daring, half
expecting him to run away.
"That money again! Confound the
fellow if I'll keep his infernal secret
any longer. I tell you I was paid for m
services, every cent of it, in advance."
Madge's eyes dilated.
"Who paid you, doctor?"
"That I won't tell. I promised. You
and the young fellow must settle it be-tween
yourselves. Good-morning." He
turned abruptly away; but the next mo-ment
turned back to say:
"1 will call and see the Florence butter-fly
one of these days. You're a good
girl to think of me. Good-bye."
Madge sat down on one of the benches
and thought. Perhaps she sat there ten
minutes, perfectly motionless. Then she
went home and opening her desk, drew
out from under a pile of old letters a lit-tle
package that bad lain untouched for
years. l3onald "Grey's letters—four of
them, and curiously enough one was seal-ed.
She tore it open, and read the two lines
in which he had announced his coming to
the city; he must have come when she was
sick, and she had lied it up with the oth-ers,
unread.
Madge was not given to soliloquy or
we might follow the process by which she
worked out her knotty problem. Enough
that she came at last to a clear solution.
The mystery of the handkerchief came in
as confirmation. Donald Grey had kept
his appointment, had found her sick.
The first week of her illness was blank.
Anybody might have come to her then.
It was ti) him she had boon a debtor all
those years.
Her unknown correspondent had taken
no very strong hold on her imagination,
in those days, when she was so tired and
over-worked; but now he had his revenge.
He was hardly out of her mind for a mo-ment.
And this man was in tho city; she
could see, and thank him. ^-^he lost no
time in c.dling on her publishers.
When she spoke of Mr. Grey, Carey
referred her to their editor, Mr. Donald.
The gentleman was an intimate friend of
his,
A formal introduction followed, and
Miss Adair said:
"You are acquainted with Mr Grey ?"
"I have known him along time.'
"And you will see him soon ?"
"Probably,"
"Will you do me the favor to ask him
to call on me?"
Mr. Don dd hesitated, coloring slight-ly,
and she added:
"Mr. Grey has laid mo under a great
obligation, and 1 must see him and cancel
it."
"If that is the case, I think he wont
come "
"Ohl but you must not tell him."
"Am 1 not to give him your name ?"
She looked perplexed.
"1 don't know, indeed—if that will pre-vent
his calling."
"Perhaps you had best leave it to mo.
Miss Adair. I think I can manage it, if
any one; but Grey is an eccentric fellow.
Don't be disappointed if he fails you."
Madge sat all the evening listening for
a strange footstep, but no one came.
Donald Grey walked up and down tho
street beneath her window, longing to
enter, but feeling how impossible it was
to reveal himself to this' girl as her un-known
creditor. The debt had seemed
for years a vague, invisible tie binding
her to him, yet ho could not bear that she
should feel the weight ofit. He did not
call.
The next time she called at the office,
neither alluded to her disappointment.
They talked of business. He- detained
her in conversation, and contrived some
errand that should bring her back next
d iy. And then it went cm from day to
day. He was always wanting her assis-tance
in his work. Sometimes a little
cop3'ing, sometimes it was criticising and
correcting MSS. They grew very IViend-ly,
but they never spoke of Donald Grey.
Yet Madge thought of him continually.
She never entered the office without a
tremulous hope that she should meet him
tiiere. But she never did. The man
eluded her strangely. Every day it was
on her tongue to ask Mr. Donald about
his friend, but in his presence the ques-tion
always died on her lips.
One day she happened in at the office
when all the heads of the establishment
were out at dinner.
"Is Mr. Donald in ?" she asked of the
boy who was left in charge.
"Who ma'am ?"
' "Mr. Donald, the editor."
"Oh, ma'am, you mean Mr. Grey, I pre-sume.
They call him Donald."
Madge turned without a word and went
out. She saw it all at a flash. At home
she penned the following note:
" Mr, Donald :—You were out to-day
when I called. Please come up this even-ing
and go over the MSS. with me. I
shall need your assistance, m. a."
She smiled as she folded it. "Busi-ness-
like enough to bring him, I think.'*
She sent it down and waited for even-ing—
waited in what a tumult of emotion.
Her old correspondent, her unknown ben-efactor,
and her kind editor were all one
and the same.
At last the slow-coming spring twilight
gathered in the little room.
There wa-: a step on the stair, a rap at
the door. She opened it and Donald
Grey came in.
"You found the manuscript too much
for you. Miss Adair ?"
"1 found something else too much for
me, Mr. Grey."
He started at the name. She took a
step forward, and laid a hand on his.
'•Hush," she said, " for I must thank
you—I must."
She stopped short, conscious that her
hands were hold close in his clasp and her
pulses beating vehemently. Somehow all
the words that had been crowding for
utterance, slipped away, and she stood
silent and trembling.
''Listen, Madge Adair," ho said, " be-fore
you thank me Years ago, I was
drawn to you mysteriously ; 1 came one
day and found you sick, half-unconscious,
and helpless as an infiint; with no one to
take care of you. Had 1 been tho veri-est
stranger, 1 had been loss than humau
had I neglected to do anything that 1 did.
But I was compelled to loaveyou in other
hands. When 1 came homo, eager and
impatient to meet you again, you were
gone, and had left no trace. I cannot tell
you now, what the disappointment cost
me, nor how I longed for you all thoso
years. For I loved you, Madge Adair.
Then you came back. But my poor little
violet was changed into a great, rich Per-sian
rose, fit to be the pride of all the
gardens. My love was trausformed into
worship."
He paused a moment, looking down ou
tho fair, bowed head, the silent iiguro.
"Madge, that is all. Sh;dl 1 go on?"
And the beautiful face dimly outlined