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m W W HBi FSWj til l#l ri V H Hha iA W? 11 k, ’A If H I F wT| ■■•<> ’B J& M IM B W- Wik ft>.W A A H I B w A tM o w w_tw <w s sntSiJiL mll m -**■—• - - SL_fc-_. Stt. r -. .- - E- A- -/:■ 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 " * * , wk .. /7 l/W \RX_jV ■ w // / A \' 'xsi Vx\ Y KY \ wIY ■ A // - X }\ " 1 M a// ’■ ’S7 -■ \i 1 ... w■' v V>SW\>«Wfcsjß<... . - . . . .. . ; I ”. 5 • ■ 4a / ••" \'Vv\ ?•■ ” •• 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.)