Pike County Democrat, Volume 28, Number 3, Petersburg, Pike County, 28 May 1897 — Page 3

1IN iERHESS.

H! this Is my soar to the Grey and the Blue, Who once were so many and now are so few. The young ones, the bold ones. The grim ones, the old ones. The fighters who

M IUU$IU UUV W u V o w v-terrible days. Through the copses and dingles and darktangled ways. Down In the WildernessDown In the Wilderness. It was over the river Rapldan. And slowly southward the march began. Into the soU.tude. Into the gloomy wood. ■On. on. on, with a wide, strange sound. -Grinding and Jarring the sodden ground. Down in the WildernessDown in the Wilderness. All hushed were the bosket-flutes of May, All sweet-voiced things had flown away, Leaving to Grant and Lee A desert and destiny; What time their batteries floundered and pounded. And the bombs through the timber bumped and bounded. Down in the Wilderness— Down In the Wilderness. Tossing and swaying, the hosts did go. Blindly buffeting, blow on blow. Over the fen-land. Over the gray sand; And far and near, amid brush and brier. Crackled the crisp, kern musket fire. Down in the WildernessDown in the Wilderness.. Hither and thither, dashing in vain. Columns soaked in a bullet rain. Covered with battle grime. Daytime and night time. Stumbled and fumbled on through the maze. And charged by the light of their powder blaze, Down in the Wilderness— Down in the Wilderness. Each man a hero cleaving his way Sheer through a phalanx of Blue or of Gray; Back and forth, back and forth. East of west, south or north. Plunging at death with a shout and a shot. Where the ground rippled red and the air panted hot. Down iii the Wilderness— Down in the Wilderness. Oh! the heroes who died and the brave who came forth Wore the soul of the south and the heart of the north; 1 And the strong .sons they sired. Stand by the guns they fired. Build on the battle si<ots altars of stone. And one old war minstrel goes singing alone, Down in the Wilderness— Doan in the Wilderness. And so take my song to the Gray and the Blue, Oh! once they were many, and now they are few; Here’s to the bold ones. The grizzled and old ones. Who fought through the solitude man to man. Southward away from the Papidan, Down In the - Wilderness— Down In the Wilderness. —Maurice Thompson, In N, Y. Independent.

rj jo [O 11 X LOBIM KIv walked quietly out of the house, closing the front door softly behind him. For a moment he stoo<l hesitatingly on the piazza, then, w itiji a deep sigh, he walked down the gravel path, out of the gate and up the lane towards the big white house of the Armstrong family, lie walked slowly, with eyes bent on the ground, as one having trouble on his mind. ntil. glancing up, he caught the glemn of a white dress at the gate of the Armstrong home—then the lagging steps grew brisk, and the melancholy face was brightened by a untie of pleasant anticipation. It was a lovely evening in the latter j part of May. and all nature seemtd to be rejoicing in the fullness of the ripe i springtime. 1? seemed a time for glad- j ness and naught else, at least to those j to whom sorrow was unknown. But in ! the cottage John Lorimer had just left j was a little gray-U^lrel woman, who. J sitting in an arm-chair with an old. j faded photograph in her thin, shaking j hands, was sobbing as though her heart would break. The picture was that of » young, handsome man in the uniform of a lieutenant of artillery, and was sadly bhtrred with the unavailing tears that had fallen upon it. The twilight deepened, and darkness t *me, and with it the songs of the frog and the cricket and the whip-poor-will, and all the other sounds that tend to make night in the country a very symphony in itself—but the woman paid j no' heed, pausing only in her weeping now and then to kite passionately the j fcded, tawdry photograph. Ypong Lorimer** smile vanished almost ns quickly as it came, for he could i not more than momentarily forget the I poor little heart-broken mother he had left weeping in her corner of the big sitting-room, although he knew he j could do nothing to soothe her. and that she preferred to be left alone at this time; so his face was unusually solemn when be greeted his sweetheart, Bessie Armstrong, who was waiting for him at the gate. “What makes you look so solemn tonight. big boy?" asked the girl, lightly. “Oh. just wbat happens every year at this time—my mother is having her usual err over my father's picture, end.

times. I came away as soon as I could. You see, this Is the anniversary of my father's—" The girl’s face had become grave almost as soon as John began speaking, and it was in a different tone than she had used at first that she asked: “Your father was killed in the war, wasn’t he, John?" “We don’t know. I suppose he was, but mother will not think so. I never saw him, you know, for I wasn’t born until he had been gone six months. Shall I tell you about him?” “Yes," whispered Bessie, nestling closer to him in the twilight. And John, with an occasional little break in his voice, told her the story of the father he had never seen. In the village of Banbury, at the opening of the war, lived a prosperous young merchant. John Lorimer. Be had not been married long when the cadi for 90-dav volunteers oame, and for th)6 and other reasons he did not feel it incumbent upon hin: to respond to the call. But when it was seen that the civil war was assuming alarming proportions, and “Father Abraham” called for “300,000 more," then John Lorimer saw

Larimer left her eon and Bessie to Join some other dower-laden woman in a carry«»l, and the young1 people walked leisurely toward the cemetery. There were short services at the base of the tall shaft inscribed: “To Our Unknown Dead”—then the graves were decorated, the salutes fired, and the procession marched back to the village, leaving behind only a few* persons, most of whom had friends buried there. Among those who remained were John Lorimer and Bessie Armstrong, who, in a silence begotten by the solemnity of the occasion, walked hither, and thither among the shady paths of the little cemetery. “What's that?” asked John, suddenly, as they turned into a path they had not seen before. Bessie gave a little scream. Almost at their very feet lay the old stranger John had noticed in the morning, with the blood trickling from a wound on his gray head. He had, apparently, sat down on OrStump to rest, and, overcome by the heat and his rather long march, had fallen backward striking his head on a large stone just beside the oath

AT THEIR VERY FEET LAY THE OLD STRANGER.

hut one thing: to do. lie sold out his business, and, turning the proceeds of the sale and all his other property over to his wife, he went to the front as second in command of a battery fitted out by Banbury and neighboring villages. For a year or more came, with more pr less regularity. John's cheery, breezy letters, in which the discomfort® of camp-life were depicted as a joke, and the horrors of w ar as a pastime. Then came the account of a battle, with the bulletin of dead, wounded and missing —and among those whose names followed that awful word “missing''was.;^ “John Lorimcr. captain Battery C, ^=th Ulipois artillery.” , Vainly the sorrowing wife he had left at home w rote here and there to see if j she could get any trace of him. Years j passed—years during which the young wife often told herself that the knowledge of his death were better than that terrible uncertainty as to his fate. As soon as-the war closed, she went- south and inspected the records of all the tary prisons, but gained no clew from these. Yet she could never convince herself that he was dead, and she lived in the faith that she and her boy. the son he had never seen, now nearly as old as his father was when he went to the front, would yet look upon the living face of that husband anu father. It was the day when all America,; leading all other matters aside, unites in doing honor to the heroes, w ho died that the nation might live. The morning had broken bright and clear, and the j spring sun shone benignantly upon the completing preparations for the Memorial day ceremonies in Banbury, w hence many a promising young fellow had gone to the war and died for his country. At 11 o’clock came the services at the j church, which almost everyone attended. Lined on either side of the walk outside were the Banbury guards, the local militia company, standing at “parade rest” w hile waiting for the appearance of the grand army post. 1‘resentlT the veterans appeared, marching up the street with somewhat uncertain step—for many of them were cripples—behind muffled drum and silent fife—a little group of aging men. the remnant of scores of strong, hopeful young fellows who hail gone forth fiom Banbury to tight for the cause they loved. As they approached, the young eaptain of the guards gave two or three quiet command*: “Attention! Carry rrnis! I’resent arms!” And through the files of untried soldiers passed those of many battle*. “I wonder who that old fellow in the last rb’.v of veterans is." mused John Ia>rimer. who. with bis mother and Bessie Armstrong, stood on the corner and saw the old soldiers pass by., “He must be a stranger. Did you notice? He aeemed to be dazed—a little ‘off.’ I reckon.” The services at the church were more j than usually impressive. The new min- j ister, Mr. Dare, was himself a veteran, and he talked to the soldiers as only a | soldier can. then preached a sermon' that brought tears to the ey^s of nearly everyone in the house. The services over, the veterans, followed by the guards and a long procession of citizens, marched to the cemeterr to perform the remaining cereroo

! John went to him as soon as he recovered from his first shock, and raised the old man’s head, but, beyond his faint breathing’, there was little sign of life. “There's only one thing to do. John.” said .Bessie, quietly. “You bandage Ids head with your handkerchief, prop him against the stump, and I'll hold him until you can borrow a horse and buggy and bring Dr. Baker.” John hesitated.a moment, then followed his sweetheart's directions to th" let-tet*. He easily borrowed a horse and buggy from one of those who still lingered at the cemetery, and in less than half an hour he returned with the doctor. “H'm! Rretty had case—old wound. I fancy," said Dr. Baker. “Who is he?” “I don’t know." said John. “1 noticed him in the procession this morning, but he seems to be a stranger.” “Well, he must be taken care of. in any ease, and well taken care of. But v here can we—” “Just take him over to our house,” interrupted John, promptly, receiving, for this suggestion, an approving smile from Bessie. In a very short time the injured naa: was lying in Mrs. Lorimer's “'.-pare room.” and before the day was over all the village knew that-“the widow Larimer” was nursing a sick veteran. “Just like her." said everybody. “Slic'd just work her finger to the bone doing for anyone who wore the army uniform.” I nder Dr. Baker'-, somewhat primitive treatment the patient did' „not thrive, but, instead, grew worse, until, at the end of a week, at Mrs. Lorimer's suggestion, a physician from tue’city was sent for. That eminent practitioner arrived, asked a few questions,examined the patient's injured head, and announced: "The man has been wounded in the head, and his skull has been trepanned. It was a bad job, for something was left pressing upon the ferain, and this accident has dented the^date, also. I think he'll stand an operation.” the physician wenton musingly as he turned to his case of surgical instruments. In a few hours, the city physician, having removed the old plate and replaced it with a new one, took the train home, leaving behind him a patient who v as sleeping as quietly as a babe. To Mrs. Lori me r the doctor said, at parting: “All your patient needs now is good nursing, and I know, madam, he will receive it at your hands. When he regains consciousness, it will be. 1 think, as a perfectly sane man.” Thesecotal morning after the doctor's departure Mrs. Larimer was leaning over the sick man, when suddenly k.s eyes opened. “I've been pretty sick, haven't I. nurse?” he asked with a faint smile. “Yes. indeed. But you mustr.'i talk. What shall I get you to eat?” “How long will it be. do you think, before I can go home?” persisted the map. “Xot for quite awhile yet, I'm afraid. Where do you live?” “At Banbury. 111. I've g5t a wife there and a boy I've never seen—named after me—John Lorimer, a id 1 want to—” John in the sittLng-room heard his mother's scream, and. bounding up the

lying' in a faint across the body of the wondering, frightened sick man. It was all soon explained. John Lorimer, Sr., had been struck by a fly* ing bit of shell while in eommnd of his battery, and had been taken u> the hospital, where an incompetent surgeon trepanned his injured skull. In a short time he had been discharged from the hospital as cured—but he had lost his memory, had forgotten his name, residence, everything, and was semiimbecile besides. In this condition he had passed 22 long years—years of which he had no recollection whatever. But the husband of her youth was again with her in the flesh, and Mrs. Lorimer’s steadfast faith was justified. * * * “Just look at Mrs. Lorimer,” said one of the guests at the Armstrong house the day John and Bessie were married; and she nodded towards that little woman, who was leaning proudly on the arm of her long-absent husband. “If it weren’t for her gray hairs, she’d look like a bride, ami a pretty young cne at that.” R. I* KETCHUM.

IN MEMORIAM. Decoration Day as a l'erpetual C'elebrattoa of the Nation. Memorial day is celebrated with none the less fervor because the ranks of the veterans are thinning' from year to year. There is enough reverence leftin the hearts of the children of the old soldiers to commemorate the occasion with all the tributes of floral offerings which the heroes of the war deserved. Let us hope that the time will never come when this observance will be forgotten, for Decoration day should take its place forever with the patriotic celebration of the nation, to-perpetuate love of home and country. If the spirits of the departed know i aught of what takes place in this mortal j life, they must rejoice that they are re- | membered, and that there is little significanee in the oft-quoted saying: “Are we soon forgotten after we are gone?” It is not glory alone that guards the i bivouac of the dead, but the living ; hands of sisters, brothers, wives, chil- ! dren and old comrades, who strew flow- j ers upon the silent tents, and make the j resting places of the loved ones blossom like the rose. Mankind has been called hard, self- j ish, irresponsive, but occasions like Memorial day prove that the poet is | right when he says that a lie that is j half a truth is ever the blackest of lies. In the fierce struggle for existence men often forget the feelings and the rights j of others, but underlying all their harshness and self-seeking there is a ! better spirit, which can be wakened in- j to life by the remembrance of deeds of j self-sacrifice and courage. Even the j dullest clod of humanity is inspired j when he hears of the brave deeds which Memorial day recalls, and life is better worth the living when noble, patriotic deeds form the theme of the orator’s discourse and the pc?t’s verse. The dull round of the familiar acts of every day takes on new light when we are , urged not to forget the defenders of our flag, who endured privations, disease and death, that it might forever float over us to remind us that a heritage of liberty is the greatest gift that can be { given an intelligent and self-respecting people. Therefore, let Memorial day endure, with its lesson of patriotism, gratitude, charity and love. — Boston Budget. Core Into Camp. Thin are the blue-clad ranks to-day. once half a million strong. And slow and feeble are the feet that once marched far and Ions: Once more together they will march with slow, uncertain tramp. To see their comrades who have gone before them into camp. The tents are spread—the low. green tents. whose curtain tightly close: Xo reveille w-ill waken those who sweetly here repose: Xo more their weary feet will toil o'er highways rough and damp— For them the long, hard march is done, for they've gone into camp. Their comrades come, with songs and flowers, the banner of their love Floats proudly out upon the air. their low. close tents above: Ah. many a mile they followed it with j strong and steady tramp Before they heard the order given—"Break ranks—go into camp!” Soon all the weary feet will halt, the last march will be made. For them, the low, green tents be spread on hillside or on glade: Xo more together they will march with slow and broken tramp— To all the order will be given: “Break ranks —go Into camp!" —Xinette M. Lowater, in Chicago TimesHerald.

JoM the Nan to uo it. The man for the occasion is not al- i •ways so promptly at hand as he seems ; to have been in the following story: j Not Ion™ ago. Sandow, the celebrated | strong man, was going from Kansas City to Omaha. While iu the train he ' was accosted by a tall gentleman with I long side-whiskers. “Excuse me. sir,” he said, “but at« j not you Mr. Sandow?” “Yes.” said the strong man. “You can lift three tons in harness?” “Yes, sir. that is my record.” the Hercules returned. “You can hold two hundredweight at arm's length?” “Yes.” “And six hundred with two?” “Yes.” “Then would you kindly raise this window for ire?”—Tit-Bits. Heroic Treatment. Doctor (just arrived at the scene of the accident)—What on earth are you holding his nose for? Pat (kneeling beside the victim)—So his breath won't leave his hotly, of course.—N. Y. Journal. Why lie Chansed. “TThv have you quit going to see Miss Flippin cn Thursday nights? 1 see that you go there Friday nights now.” “Thursday night is onion night *it the t1ippins‘.l,--r!>r*Uii(l Leafier.

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