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VOTj . IT.
A Bonny Brown Hand—A Song
of the Hearth.
'BY PAUL H. HAYNE.
T.
0! drearily 7, how drearily the sombre
eve comes down,
And wearily, how wearily the seaward
breezes blow,
But place your little hand in mine, so
dainty yet so brown,
For cottage, toil hath worn away .its rosy
tinted snow;
Aet I fold it wife the nearer,
And I feel, my love, ’tis dearer
Than all dear things of earth,
As I watch the pensive gloaming,
And mv wild thoughts cease from
roaming,
And bird-like furl their pinions olose
beside our peaceful hearth:
So steal your little hand in mine, iwhile
twilight shimmers down;
That little hand, that fervent hand, that
hand of bonny brown,
The hand which holds an honest
heart, and rules a happy hearth !
ii.
0 merrily, how merrily our children’s
voices rise,
And cheerily, how cheerily their tiny
footsteps fall;
But hand, you must not stir awhile! for
there our nestling lies
Snug in the cradle at your side, the
loveliest far of all;
Aud she looks so arch and airy,
So softly pure a Fairy,
She scarce seems bound to earth—
And her dimpled mouth keeps
smiling,
As at some child-fay’s beguiling',
Who flies from Ariel realms to light
her slumbers on the hearth:
Ha! little hand you yearn to move, and
smooth the bright locks down.
But little hand, hut trembling hand, but
hand of bonny brown,
Stay, stay with me, she will not flee
)
our birdling on the hearth.
ill.
0! flittingly, how flittingly, the parlor
shadows thrill,
As wittingly, half wittingly they seem
to puise and pass —
And solemn sounds are on the wind that
sweeps the haunted hill,
And murmurs of a ghostly breath from
the grave-yard grass;
Let me feel your glowing lingers
In a clasp that warms and lingers
With the full, fond love of earth,
’Till the joy of love’s completeness
In this flush of fireside sweetness,
Shall brim our hearts with spirit
wine out-poured beside the hearth;
So rest your little hand in mine, while
twilight falters down,
That liitle hand, that fervent hand, that
hand of bonny brown;
The hand which points the path to hea
ven, yet makes a heaven of earth.
[From Deßow’s Review for November.]
SERGEANT BILLY.
THE PET OE THE REGIMENT.
As the soft twilight deepened, we drew
our chairs near the open window. There
was that peculiar tint in the skies which
seems to be a blending of all the beauti
ful colors; as if the rainbows of all sum
mer time had been swept by some master
band into one broad, marvelous hue to
glorify alike the heavens a..d the earth.
I have never seen those warm, luminous,
twilight skies, save in Southern latitudes;
and no artist that I have known has ever
caught tli“ soft brilliancy of their effect
u pon his canvas. As the rich glow fell
now in i f s mellow splendor upon all
{ Lings, it lent anew beauty 7 to the
flowers, the water of the fountain, the
green turf where the children played,
and even the little kid for whose neck
they were twining wreaths, stood forth
transfigured.
Paul sat beside me with his wounded
foot upon a cushion, and his crutch lean
ing against the wall by. He gazed at
the fair picture before us is the garden,
and I saw a kindling light into his fine
eyes as if memory’s torch had suddenly
illuminated them.
“What is it?” I asked. I anr sure
there is a story behind that smile and
glance.
He shook his head. “Not a story,” he
replied, “not even a faint shadow of ro
mance. But the sight of your little kid
reminds me of a companion in arms, to
whom I was greatly attached. I can
never think of him without experiencing
at once a glow of pleasure and a pang of
regret.”
“ Then he was killed ?” I said, with a
certain feeling of awe creeping over me,
for I knew how tenderly Paul nad hon
ored many of his brother soldiers, and
how sorely 7 he yet mourned them.
“You shall hear,” he answered; and as
I placed a glass of orgeat on the little
table at his side, and wheeled his chair a
trifle nearer the window, that the rich
odors of the jasmines might reach him as
he talked, I resumed my seat beside him,
and he began his narrative.
For me, a woman, to tell it as he, a
soldier, did, were simply impossible. In
my feeble rendering, the reader must
loose the pleasant pictures which he drew
—his fine dashes of artistic coloring, and
his succinct and graphic style of descrip
tion. There will be, moreover, the dif
ference in my recital between one who
draws direct from nature and one who
draws from memory. As it lives in nay
recollection, nis story ran as follows:
In the spring of 1863, our regiment,
the Louisiana, was stationed at
Petit Anse, or Salt Island, about eleven
miles from New Iberia. It was in the
fair “ Teche country 7 ,” a portion of
Louisiana, already celebrated in song,
and now destined to add, at least, one
chapter to historic story.
In my company was a young Creole;
a frank, generous, soldierly fellow ac
customed all his life to the refinements
and luxuries of wealth, but who, at his
country’s call had been among the first
to shoulder his musket and enter the
ranks, ready and eager to do or die for
his own Southland. As yet, he had
seen but little actual service, his experi
ence having been confined to camp life;
but his lively disposition and even temper
endeared him to every comrade, while a
certain manly independence of privation
and discomfort, and a ready acquiescence
to military discipline, gave noble promise
of the future soldier.
His mother, ever anxious for the wel
fare of her son, and living not far dis
tant from the island, was in the habit of
sending him every 7 now and then supplies
from home. There were always dainties
of one kind and another coming, such as
a loving woman’s hand knows so well
how to prepare, and these were often ac
companied by fresh meat usually suffi
cient for, and invariably 7 shared with,
our mess. These relays you may rest
assured, never failed to meet a soldier’s
welcome, and formed a most delicious in
terruption to our ordinary soldier’s fare.
Finally, there was sent by this good
mother to her son a pair of young kids,
alive and in splendid order. The meat
of the young goat, when propeily pre
pared, quite equals the finest mutton ;
and one of these was speedily offered up
a burnt, or at least a roast sacrifice,upon
the altar of appetite ; and around our
merry 7 mess-table we enjoyed the savory
odors, and still more the delicate flesh of
our prize. It so happened that just then
we chanced to be very well supplied
with meat and game, consequently the
other goat was turned loose. There be
ing no communication with the main land,
save a causeway which was always
guarded, there was no danger that the
AUGUSTA, G .A., JANUARY 1, 1870.
kid would escape, and we were quite con
tent to allow this future'dinner to run
about and enjoy itself, sure of it when
ever our hunger should cry aloud for a
victim.
It was a pretty little creature, full of
play as a youug lamb, and managing to
kee its coat of glossy wl ite and black
haii as cloen and untangled as if it em
ployed a special barber for the purpose.
The tender grass abundant everywhere in
the neighborhood of tho camp, afforded
it excellent pasture, and for a time,
Billy, as we called him, was content to
roam at his own free will with nothing
to hinder the cultivation of his appetite
and his embryo horns and beard. Before
a great while, however, he began to ex
hibit social qualities; would linger about
camp, where its gambols began to
attract the attention of the men ; and
although it had none of that sort of
intelligence which characterized Sylvia’s
goat in Victor Hugo’s novel of “Notre
Dame,” and showed no orthographical
powers whatever, it began to evince a
certain degree of understanding, far better
calculated to win the heart# of rough
soldiers.
It was not long before the little fellow
ceased to be regarded as so-many pounds
of meat; takiug care of itself till wanted,
but became an object of affectionate re
gard with us all.
A soldier’s heart likes something that
searches out its tender places. I have
often noticed how, from between the
stony hardness iA military lines, little
affections sliooi up Piceiola’s which the
man’s nature tends and watches with all
loving kindness—sometimes it is be
stowed upon inanimate objects, a sword, a
rifle, some trinket associated with home,
ygain, it is some young and fragile boy
comrade, or, perhaps, a horse; and once
1 knew a soldier who caught and tamed
a flying squirrel. In his idle hours it
was his pc< and companion, eating from
his hand and sporting merrily about him.
On the march and in the it lay
hidden in his bosom. When at last a
bullet found that soldier’s heart, and his
comrades were about to bury him, they
saw something stir beneath the dead man’s
jacket; and there they discovered the
little squirrel nestled, warm and living
on his icy breast. Perhaps his last pang
had been soothed by the presence of the
tiny creature wnich clung to and loved
him to the last.
Thus with our kid, he became a pet
with every man of us. Lingering about
camp, trotting in and out of tents, even
the Colonel’s own, unchallenged, often
joining some favorite sentry on guard or
diligently attending the officer of the
day, with as grave and dignified an air
as if the duties of the office pertained to
himself alone. ABiily became emphati
cally a sort of child of the regiment N. »t
one of us but had a word of kindness or
caress for him, and whenever a soldier
had anything to eat, the goat was sure of
sharing his repast. It finally became
evident that the original sentence of
death hanging over Billy had been com
muted to living ; and. as good a living as
he could get, or any of us help him to.
Our lamb-and-green-peas view of him had
entirely passed away, and the little crea
ture intended for our table, was the most
generously fed from it. He very well
knew, by this time, when our meals were
ready, and would make his appearance
regularly with the tin plates and kuives
and folks, soon discovering if our cuisine
afforded anything suited for his delicate
appetite or not.
He had really acquired, too, a certain
comprehension of camp discipline, and
conformed to it as strictly as the b.-sfc sol
dier in the regiment. At re\cillc Billy
would show himself, toilet iu good order,
then march away to his grass. At com
pany drill he would return, watch the
men as they went through their evolu
tions, and march with them as they march
ed, invariably placing himself at toe
head of the column, and leading it with
all the gravity and dignity of a field
marshal.
Ilis chief delight, however, was dress -
parade. No matter how much he might
be enjoying a quiet snooze on some dis~
tan I bit id turf, or Crusoe-like, exploring
iiis i.! uid, or feasting on some particular
ly young and tender herbage, at the beat
of tho drum Billy could be seen afar off
with ears pricked up, coming at a double
quick to be present at roll call and take
his accustomed place. Then, as the
drum major passed down the line, Billy
led down the entire front. In the right
face, it might be supposed he would have
beeu left to bring up the rear, but never
in one instance did this occur, he led
down and he led back, with a step ap
proximating as closely to a march as any
four-footed animal could be expected to
assume, aud took his place at the head
of the column again with an air which
seemed to eay, “I was obliged to leave
my post in order to show the drum ma
jor how to properly perform his duty.
He never could do it, did I not lead the
way.” Perhaps he was right. It seemed
to us all that as Billy stepped out and
placed himself at their head, the fifer al
ways filed more merrily, and the drum
heat with anew emphasis; as if the little
drummers had allowed the drum sticks
to pass from their chubby hands into the
keeping of their jolly hearts, which
thumped, and throbbed, and danced a
mad rat-a-plan of affectionate welcome
for Serjeant Billy upon the astounded
sheepskin.
AY hen parade was over, and the adju
tant stepped to his position, in front, to
receive the reports of the officers, there
at his side, grave, with head erect, and
attentive eyes, stood Billy—Serjeant
Billy, as we now call him; nor could
anything tempt him, away till the men
were finally dismissed, when he broke
ranks with the rest of us, and laying
aside air militaire, which so distinguished
him on parade, became once more a little
gamboling kid, rearing himself on his
his hind legs, rubbing his head against
some kindly shoulder, or thrusting his
little cold nose into some warm and
friendly hand. At tattoo he betook him
j seli quietly to his rest, passing from
among the tents to turn iu among his
own cool and pleasant pastures.
Early one morning there was an un
usual stir in camp. We were tinder
marching orders. Tents were struck,
ammunition distributed, rations fur
nished. There was heard the brief word
of command, the measured tramp of mar
tial feet, and the occasional click of a
trigger, as some soldier examined his
trusty rifle. Just at daybreak on the
thirteenth of April, our battalion, one
hundred and thirty-five strong, marched
away from Salt Island, across the prairie
toward New Iberia. Heavy spring rains
had fallen, rendering the way a weary
one. Mud and water met us at every
step, and the sodden, spongy turf be
neath our feet was ouly equalled in drea
riuess by the dull and leaden sky over
| our heads. I remember well the pecu
niar gloom of that morning; how silent
! the birds were, how crushed and wet the
; flowers and grasses lay; and how the sun,
: when he rose, hid behind the clouds, as
i if he knew Dame Nature had been sitting
iup for him all night, and meant to give
him a stormy reception whenever he
shuuid make his appearance.
Through it all, as undismayed, with
step as sturdy as the best of us, heading
the column as usual, marched Serjeant
Billy. The early start, the new and
unfamiliar paths, the heavy roads ail
i alike found him undaunted. Leading
j his beloved soldiers, lie trudged on
through mud and mire. The traces of
his delicate hoofs always mingled with
the heavy footprints of his cherished bat
talion.
Arrived at New Iberia, we took a
boat on Bayou Teche, but had proceeded
only a little distance when the suHen
skies, which, like Tam O’Shanter’s wife,
seemed to have been nursing their wrath
to keep it warm, with sudden spite
poured out their furious ire. The wiud
blew feariully; our boat lost both her
chimneys, and we were forced to return
to town for repairs. At about four
o’clock in the afternoon we resumed our
trip, Serjeant Billy having improved the
delay by diligently devoting himself to
rest; lying about the decks apparently
quite content to conform to any circum
stances so that his men and superior offi
cers N were near at hand.
It was about eight o'clock in the even
ing, when we landed at a point about
six or eight miles above Charentou,
sometimes called Irish Bend, and some
times Grand Lake. There Gen. Grover,
with four Federal brigades was stationed.
Banks was at Berwick’s Bay, with a large
force coming up the Teche, and Grover
moving down with the intention of cut
ting off the retreat of the Confederates
stationed at Camp Island—which lay be
tween the two armies of the Federais—
should Banks succeed in driving them
fioin their position. A small Confeder
ate force wns also stationed at Franklin,
on the Teche, a long night’s march from
our place of debarkation. To join this
latter force, our battalion marched down
what is known as the cut-off' road, leav
ing Grover’s division some distance to the
northeast of our line of march, the cut-off
road leading us almost a direct path from
our place of landing to Franklin; and
avoiding the much more circuitous bayou
road, which followed the bend of the
Teche.
As we pushed forward the rain fell in
torrents, accompanied by furious gusts of
wind which drove the water with almost
blinding force into our faces, and seemed
to combat our cvsry stgp and defy our
advance. The darkness of Erebus sur
rounded us, the pools of water m the road
lay in ambush and constantly 7 entrapped
us, the mud clogged our weary feet, and
drenching rain half drowned us. But
every Hash of lightning showed us Ser
jeant Billy, marching sturdily forward,
never lagging behind, never turning
aside, but bravely and defiantly ill spite
of wind and weather, leading the column,
while the water dripped from his long
hair, and his little hoofs sauk deep in
the mire at every step. A believer in
the transmigration of souls might have
readily deem and the noble little animal
animated by the spirit of some brave and
gallant general, whose undaunted cour
age surmounted all difficulties, and whose
unflinching daring defied defeat. The
little fellow, I assure you, was an exam
ple forus all; stout, hardy men, unused
to hardships, as we were, the pelting
storm, the impenetrable darkness, the
almost impassable roads disheartened
the strongest of us, and now a murmur,
and now an oath, could be heard in some
brief lull of the tempest, but never a
sigu of disc >utent from Serjeant Billy.
Once only, when a humane soldier p ity
intr the weariness he believed the slender
“ » •
limbs were sullering, stooped down and
lifted our little Serjeant in his strong
arms, hoping to shelter this child of th 1
regiment for a little while upon his own
brawny breast, did a sound escape him.
Then he struggl'd, and glanced beseech
ingly up in the soldier’s face, uttering at
| the same time, a piteous blast, an almost
human cry, so that the man put him
down again, and thus he was seen head
ing the column, as at break of day we
entered Franklin, and moved up the bayot
a mile and a half.
All weary and exhausted with our
night’s march, we were at once pushed
forward as skirmishers, with a small
force added to our own at Franklin. We
took up our position under cover of a
strip of woods, which served to comma]
our strength, or rather our weaknc.s g
General Grover’s division had also
; down the Teche, and as the storm clea
away and the morning light begat ”
dispel the surrounding shadows, wee
U7o. 42,