Newspaper Page Text
Entered according to Act of Congress, in June, 1868, by J. W. Burke & Cos., in the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the United States for the So. District of Georgia.
VOL. 11.
Written for Burke’s Weekly.
UNCLE JOHN’S STOKY,
? 2m WAY up in the mountains of
O'M Ip “ Virginia,” in an old gray
'-'O-0 farm house, a little brown
faced girl stands peering through the
window into the deepening twilight with
out. The cheerful crackling of the fire
is unheeded, though the ruddy blaze
has chased the shadows from each nook
and corner, as she listens to the mur
mur of the rain-drops pattering on the
roof without. So far in “dreamland”
has she wandered, that the opening and
closing of the door does not arouse her;
nor is she aware of the presence of any
one, until a kind arm is thrown around
her, and a merry voice whispers :
“Castle building, Birdie? may I ask
in what country the magic structure is
situated?”
“I was’nt building ‘castles in the air,’
uncle John. Just thinking. Thinking
of those dark days, before we wept a
‘ lost cause,’ when the burden of every
prayer was, ‘God save the South.’ It
is so hard to look up sometimes —I
know it is wrong uncle John, for me
to feel so; but the clouds are so
thick and dark on this side, that I can
not always remember that they have a
silver lining.”
“It is all right , someway, ‘darling.’
We know that ‘ God is too wise to err,
and too good to be unkind.’ Ilemem
ber, Birdie, here we see as through a
glass darkly ; but all will be revealed up
yonder” (pointing upward reverently.)
“Aren’t you willing to trust ‘our
Father?”
“Sometimes, uncle John; but lam
heart sick to-night.”
And as her eyes fell on her sombre
dress, the big tears rolled down her pale
cheeks. ‘ Tell me a story, uncle, (reso
lutely brushing away the falling drops)
something of the times when you used
to say with so much pride, ‘ I am one of
Morgan’s men.’
‘ That would hardly be calculated to
bring the sunshine to this little clouded
face. What think you?”
“ I could’nt listen to anything gay to-
MACON, GEORGIA, JUNE 12, 1869.
night; so please uncle John; won’t
you?”
“ Well Birdie ! I remember one which
brought tears to eyes all so unused to
weep as mine. You remember our dearly
bought victory at Shiloh. Our command
had been comparatively idle during the
day, and, as it was the first regular en
gagement we had ever witnessed, chafed
no little at the imposed restraint. But
when the enemy commenced falling back
in the evening, Gen. Morgan was or
dered up and we were soon in the thickest
birdie’s mountain home.
of the fight. Mad with excitement, in
toxicated by our success, we pursued
the flying foe until we were ordered to
fall back —then we began to realize
some of the horrors of -war. A besom
of death seemed to have passed over
everything around us —not a branch or
twig, scarcely a leaf, that had not been
struck by a ball—and the ground was
literally ploughed up by the shot and
shells from the artillery. We camped
on the field, with the dead and dying
strewn around us. Before I had fallen
asleep my attention was arrested by a
sweet girlish voice; its careless, almost
gleeful murmur, seemed sadly out of
place, when shrieks, hollow groans,
prayers and curses filled the air with a
confused medley of sounds, too horrible
to contemplate. I raised up, and on
listening more attentively, found that it
came from a bale of hay, only a few feet
from me. I was curious to know the
cause of such untimely mirth, so ad
vanced to the spot. I found a boy ap
parently about sixteen years of age, par
tially reclining on the hay. One poor
crushed leg, almost torn from his body,
was dangling to the ground ; and his
beautiful curly hair was matted with
blood from a wound in the head, which
rendered him partially delirious. There
was a merry sparkle in his bright blue
eyes, as he talked of home and loved
ones.
“ They’ll give me a long leave of ab
sence now —going home to be nursed
and petted, by mother and May. Won’t
that be glorious?”
I asked if he was not suffering.
“ Not now. The pain was pretty tough
at first; but I’m a soldier now, and must
not mind scratches . ”
Again his voice rang out in a clear
merry laugh, but it made my heart ache,
for well I knew that nothing could bring
cessation of pain to that poor mangled
body, excepting gangrene ; which often
precedes death in such cases. Already
the dark angel, ‘Azriel’ hovered near.
I could see the shadow of his wing, in
the deathly palor that was even then
stealing over his face.
“Won’t you write to father to come
for me? My head feels badly sometimes
and I hardly think I could write.”
I assured him that I would, and asked
the address ; well knowing that the only
message I could send would be a death
blow to the bright hopes and anticipa
tions of that fond father. His home
was in C , Arkansas.
“And tell father he must give me
Black Bess now, for poor Hero was shot
through the head this morning.”
His mind again began to wander.
One moment he was on horse-back
chalenging May to a race—the next in
the most plaintive tone, “I’m so tired
mother, won’t you hold my head, it
aches so badly.”
I carried him some coffee, but suc
ceeded in getting him to drink only a
little. The soul was preparing to take
its everlasting flight and no longer had
time to attend to the wants of the poor
earthen casket. I was well nigh ex
hausted, and finally fell asleep, with the
murmur of his voice growing fainter on
my ear. When the reveille roused the
camp next morning, to its busy cares
and duties poor Willie S was far
away. The pale cold body was there on
the hay, but the freed spirit was in the
presence of its Maker; “before whom
the everlasting mountains are scattered,
and the perpetual hills do bow.” Poor
Willie sleeps with thousands of others
on that bloody field, in an unmarked
grave. “The soldier was off duty for
ever.” I took a few mementoes from
his knapsack to be sent to his parents
with the letter I had promised to write,
and left him to “sleep his last sleep.”
“lle had fought his last battle; no
sound shall awake him to glory again.”
Now dry your eyes Birdie and go to
the piano and sing, “What are the wild
waves saying.” You know that is one
of my favorites, for I think we ought to
hear “ the voice of the great Creator’
speaking from all His mighty works.
Uncle John.
Those who would go to heaven when
they die, must begin their heaven while
they live.
No. 50.