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T. L. MITCHELL, PUBLISHER.
Vol. s.—No. 6.]
For Woman’s Work.
VICTORIES WON.
A Decoration Day Story.
BY EDNA C. JACKSON.
Tj
HE LAST ROLL of the drums
had died away in the dis
tance. The setting sun cast
long, level rays across the lit
tle country cemetery, where
on each grave, in the soft evening breeze,
lay bouquets and wreaths of fading roses,
violets and gay-colored peonies. The low
twitter of the robins in the trees, the
fragrance of the dew-wet flowers, the soft
scents and sounds of a spring evening in
the country, made up a scene
that should carry a sense of peace
to the most world-wearied spirit.
But, to the dark browed young
fellow leaning with folded arms
on the low fence, came none of
this. He was very young—hard
ly twenty-two —but there were
hard lines around mouth and
eyes, a devil-may-care sneer on
his face, as he surveyed the dec
orated graves that told of a life
of wrong-doing, and perhaps of
some extra present bitterness
mingled with a deep-rooted self
hatred. His face would have
been lovable and boyish, but for
that expression and the coarsened
complexion of the whiskey drink
er; while his rags and sullen
bearing stamped him a tramp.
“ I wonder who would decorate
a grave for me, if I should be
found dead by the roadside to
night,” he muttered bitterly. “A
tramp! and a tough! One that’s
better out of the world than in!
The folks around here might
bury me—they’d be glad to do
it—l’d go my last cent, if I had
one, on that. ‘Another tramp
out of mischief!’ Well, they
can’t be blamed ; I am a miserable
cuss, and wouldn’t mind being
tucked away under ground my
self—if only ” —he paused a mo
ment and laughed a little savage
ly ; “ I’m a worthless dog, but
1 don’t want to be buried like
one.”
He looked at the graves with
their fading roses, touched to a
deeper crimson by the level rays
of the sun.
“ It would be worth while to
die, even if one wasn’t a tramp
and a nuisance, and glad to get
away from all the kicks and
cufls and carousing, if only a
fellow could know that somebody
would be glad he lived and sorry
he died, and would remember
him years after. It would be even
worth living for, to have some
body think of him like that! ”
Suddenly the hard expression
came back over his face; he
muttered an oath and took his
arms from the fence.
“Curse it! What’s the matter with
ire? Trying the goody-good dodge, after
being a tough most of my life! That’s a
good one! If I had a quarter I’d find
some doggery and scorch the foolishness
out of me with two or three * straights.’
But I haven’t got the quarter, unless I
can knock one of these hunk-headed, coun
try chaps down to-night, and borrow it of
him.”
He turned to go, but something in the
still beauty of the scene held him, and he
leaned again on the fence to take a part
ing look.
Just then the sound of a clear, girlish
voice, singing low and dreamily an old war
song, made him glance curiously toward a
path leading among the graves on his
right. There was the gleam of a delicate
pink dress among the green shrubbery,
and the singer came into full view. A
young girl of perhaps fifteen, with all the
fresh, innocent grace of the school girl in
face and form. Sauntering slowly along,
with downcast, thoughtful eyes, a faint
smile revealing hints of dimples around
the sweet, curved lips. She had taken off
her hat, and soft, light rings of hair curl
ing over her forehead, the wild rose flush
on her cheeks matching the blossoms she
held in her hand, made a picture that,
with the sweet, low singing, seemed to
blend perfectly with the quiet summer
evening.
A sense of her innocence and purity, of
an immense distance between this flower
faced girl and himself, made the tramp
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For Woman’s Work.
There’s a pretty, pretty spot,
Where the sun of mem’ry shines
On a view in old Kentucky ’mong the pines;
And I’ll ne’er forget the scene
On that bank of tangled green,
Where my bride stood fair and smiling, framed
in vines.
It is many years ago
Since I heard the southwinds blow,
And plucked the honeysuckle by the edge
Os the bank of tangled green;
o,l’ll ne’er forget the scene
The gold end crimson sunrise and love’s
pledge!
SOULS HAVE BEEN SAVED BY SIMPLE ACTS OF KINDNESS.
ATHENS, GEORGIA, JUNE, 1892.
shrink involuntarily, with an unwonted
sense of self-hatred, as she drew nearer and
nearer, still not seeing him.
“ ‘Brave boys were they,
Gone at their country’s call;
And yet, and yet,
We cannot forget— ’ ”
The girb'sh voice broke off suddenly with
a nervous thrill, and two big, blue eyes
stared in startled but fearless surprise at
the tramp.
“Oh,” cried the singer confusedly: “ I
didn’t know there was anyone here.”
The reckless mood was on him, and the
swift, mental comparison he had made as
she neared him, brought a ring of absolute
pain into his voice.
“ There aint anybody here, Miss ! I’m
nobody !”
A KENTUCKY JUNE.
And these intervening years—
They were fraught with smiles and tears ;
But their sunshine and their shadows van
ished soon,
And my heart beats quickly yet
With a thrill of vain regret,
For the springtime and that sweet Kentucky
June 1
It is many years ago
Since I heard the southwinds blow,
And plucked the honeysuckle by the edge
Os the bank of tangled green ;
O, I’ll ne’er forget the scene—
The gold and crimson sunrise and love’s
pledge, a
CMFTON S, WApy.
KATE GARLAND, EDITRESS.
[SO Cts. per Year.
The blue eyes still stared at him in be
wilderment. lie gave a comprehensive
glance downward at his rags and gener
ally disreputable appearance.
“Only a tramp!” he added harshly,
wondering even as he spoke at the strange
pain and shame that went through his
heart at thus holding himself up to the
scorn of this young girl.
But there was no scorn, only the tender
est pity in the soft glance that followed
his.
“ I see!” she said gently, “ but why ?”
He laughed abruptly. “Why?” he re
peated, “ I never thought of that! Just
cause I’m a natural good-for-naught. left
without father or mother when only a kid,
to tramp or starve; and by the time I was
old enough to be somebody, I was
so soaked in whiskey that the good
fellows sometimes gave me to
warm me up, that I couldn’t
let it alone. That’s all. But,”
his voice lowered a little, “ I
oughtn’t to tell you that. You
shouldn’t know of such things.”
The blue eyes surveyed him
steadfastly. “Why not, if such
things must be? But I was
thinking ” she turned and
looked over the flower-marked
graves, “ how different you are
from these!”
A swarthy flush burned his
cheek. “You needn’t tell me
that,” he said harshly, “ I was
thinking of that before you
E§|ggi came.”
Sk.-jfell/ “ Papa says,” she continued,
s|| thoughtfully, “ that in the war,
W when these men fought, the man
Is who deserted in the heat of battle,
v or at any time when he was
i needed so dreadfully, was taken
and shot, and no name was so
despised in that time as that of
‘deserter.’ ”
„/ “And right, too,” responded
the young fellow, with the en
‘:i thusastic patriotism that war rem-
{ iniscences will bring up even in
the mind of an American tramp,
. / particularly if he be young. “ A
) chap that would sneak oft when
i hiscountry needed him, deserved
shooting. It was too good for
him.”
The girlish face was turned
from the decorated graves to
the seamed young countenance
beside her.
“ And yet,” she said slowly
and deliberately, like some ac
cusing young judge, firm in the
conviction of her truth; “it
seems to me that you are like
one of those deserters !”
The tramp started, and grew
an angry crimson. Then he
looked at the rose-bud girl and
smiled grimly.
“ I don’t wonderthatyou think
every thing bad of me; but,
mean as I am, a man wouldn’t
dare say that to me!”
“ Papa says,” reiterated the
girl, imperturbably returning to her
oracle, “ that the fiercest battles, and
those that do most for the good of the
world, are the bloodless ones—the battles
with wrong, and temptation and crime.
He says it is easier to die for a cause
than to live for it.”
“ I believe that,” said the boy, with a
natural boyish smile, “I wish I had lived
when these men did. It seems as if it
would have been easy to have gone with
the drums and fifes and cheering into the
thickest of the fight. A fellow wouldn’t
mind being shot down that way-and
knowing that folks would be glad he lived,
even this long after.”
He was a real boy now, with frank,
(Concluded on page four.)