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8
AN INCIDENT AT THE BATTLE OF
SHARPSBURG, MARYLAND
In my last war story, "Tlge Anderson’s
‘ Brigade at Sharpsburg.” I mentioned
bursting a cap at the heart of a color
. bearer, and afterwards finding him
wounded on the field. He told me he was
the color bearer of the First Minnesota
"regiment. Through The Atlanta Journal
(and everybody reads The Journal) I have
learned his name and residence, and on
the 39th anniversary of the battle of
Sharpsburg. September 17th. I wrote him
’• long and friendly letter, to which he re
plied in a most interesting way. which
f I think will be equally interesting to the
many readers of that valuable paper. The
Atlanta Journal, and which I will give in
full:
-STILLWATER. Minn.. Sept. 28. I*l.
“Mr W. H. Andrews. Sugar Valley. Ga.:
-Dear Friend Johnnie—Your kind and
Interesting letter of the 17th instant, the
39th anniversary of our first and last
meeting on the bloody battlefield of An
tietam. Sharpsburg. Md.. has been re
ceived. and to say I was surprised and
'pleased would be stating it mildly. In
ifact I was more than pleased to hear
from the boy in gray that I laughed at
•for dodging a shell that was in search of
him-
-Why. Johnnie, it became second nature
to us all to dodge those vicious iron burn
able bees that had a very disagreeable way
of disturbing our quietness. I was also
'very much interested in your account of
the part your brigade took in that day s
work. It was a terrible day for both sides.
I have often wondered what ever became
of the pleasant, manly sergeant with
whom I chatted so freely on that occa
sion. and who I felt sure was a true sol
dier. hence my surprise and extreme
■ pleasure in receiving your letter. I am
also glad that vou are still among the
living, and that the little brown-eyed
’best girl did not go back on you for a
stay at home, but preferred the boy in
gray in Tige’ Anderson's fighting brig
ade.' I am also glad your gun missed fire
when you was so anxious to down me.
for I am confident by what you write I
must have been your especial object for
the First Minnesota was on the extreme
right of our line at that time, while yours
was on the extreme left of your line.
"Now will you kindly tell me just
where it was that your gun snapped?
Was it before you changed your position
further t« your left while yet in the field
and before you tumbled over the fence, or
after? It must have been before, be
cause while we were at the fence on the
edge of the woods most of the boys on my
right were down behind the fence, but
•those on the left were up and attending
strictly to business. I was standing up
resting the flagstaff on the fence in front
of me. Directly in front of me only a
few Johnnies were visible in the corn
field, but they were sending their compli
ments to us rather more freely than was
desirable to we'uns. Sergeant Bloomer
sent me a three-column clipping from the
Stillwater Daily Gazette in which is a
more thrilling account of his awful fate
on that bloody field, which I will copy
from. It says:
The First Minnesota regiment was in
the thick of the fight during the entire
day and was located at the extreme right.
Sam Bloomer was the color bearer of the
regiment and early in the forenoon, about
9 o'clock, while he was resting the flag
staff on a fence in front of him and the
boys were lying down so the bullets and
shells from the enemy’s guns could get by
without hindrance or delay, a minle
ball struck his right leg just below the
knee cap, passing straight through.
At the place of egress the bullet left a
ghastly wound. Sam says that's the na
ture of a minte ball, that's the way they
are built. Just about this time our line
was broken, at least driven back about
half a mile, leaving its faithful color
bearer to his fate. Sam crawled to the
foot of a big oak tree, organizing himself
with the tree between him and the rebel
fire, but as our men fell back and the
rebels occupied the place he found a
change of base desirable, and went over
to the enemy, so to speak. At least he
crept painfully and slowly around the
tree to avoid the fire from his friends,
which came pouring in thick and deadly.
The rattling sound of musketry and the
crash of artillery were in his ears. The
shells hurled over his head with long.
Wild screams, while the smoke rolled
slowly through the leaves. Bullets
whistled in the branches and nipped at
the trees. Limbs from the tree, some of
goodly size, and many leaves came sail
ing down, while a mighty song of clashes
and cracks went sweeping through the
woods. One shell coming from the Vnlon
side buried itself In the tree. In the
meantime Sam had ripped away his cloth
ing. bandaged his wound the best he
could and kept it bathed with water from
his canteen. As the blood flowed profuse
ly he bound his leg above the knee with
■ the strap from his blanket to prevent a
fatal loss of blood. Several days there
after when the injured leg was amputated
that strap was out of sight, enveloped In
the swollen flesh on either side.
“Not far from noon.” says Sam. “a
rebei soldier, who I long afterward
learned was W. H. Andrews, first ser
geant of Company M. First regiment
"Georgia regulars, came up, his regiment
not being engaged, and learning my con
dition and of the fact that I was between
two fires he and some of his comrades
,piled cordwood around me to protect me
frrm the shots. I have no doubt more
than WO bullets struck that barricade of
wood during that day. Early in the even
ing Stonewall Jackson came riding by.
He halted a moment, spoke kindly to me.
asked to what regiment I belonged and
ordered the men who had charge of a
lot of Union prisoners to supply our wants
and make us as comfortable as possible.
A captain in a North Carolina regiment
came up a little later, stopped and chat
ted with me. gave me a drink from his
canteen, spoke kindly and encouragingly
and rode away.
Previous to this, however, a rebel of-
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g BUSINESS
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fleer appeared whose conduct and conver
sation were quite unlike that of General
Jackson and the North Carolina captain.
He reviled me with bitter words, called me
a “nigger thief.” etc. I had a revolver
and a short sword under my rubber blan
ket on which I lay. and in my rage I at
tempted to get at the revolver, intending
to shoot the fellow, but he had his eyes on
me and immediately shouted: “Disarm
that man." The soldiers, of course obeyed,
although with a show of reluctance, and
all I could do was to protest and also vol
unteer the remark in a most indignant
tone that in my opinion nothing but a
d—n dirty coward would insult and rob a
wounded prisoner. I hated to part with
the sword as it was a present to me
from Captain Louis Miller.
It is a long time since this happened and
time softens our animosities, and I don't
know that I would harm him if I should
meet him now. but for many years after
the affair I believe I would have shot him
on sight if he had been in church.
Sam lay there on the ground until the
evening of the ISth. which was Thursday,
when the rebels carried him a short dis
tance to a little barn surrounded by straw
stacks, where he lay another night like
a warrior taking his rest with his mar
tial cloak around him. Martial cloak
sounds a little more like the chivalric
days when officers wore such garments,
but as a cold fact Sam's martial cloak
consisted of a badly crumpled rubber
blanket. He was not alone, for there were
more than 100 other prisoners in the hands
of the rebels, whom it was their intention
to parole, but didn’t for several reasons.
Didn't have time anyway, as they had
urgent business south of the Potomac.
Next morning, the 19th. Sam and three
others of the wounded were conveyed in
en ambulance to the Hofman barn. Sam
was obliged to sleep on the ground an
other night, however, as there were hun
dreds of others awaiting treatment by the
surgeon. Next day. Sunday. Dr. Pugsley
amputated the injured leg. In describing
this Sam indignantly remarked that he
didn't attend chureh that day. It is nec
essary in order to preserve the chain of
this somewhat complex narrative to go
back to the day of the great battle. At the
time Sergeant Andrews, of the Georgia
regulars visited Sam in his bivouac at the
foot of the friendly oak he was not aware
that he was protecting and caring for the
very man he had coolly and deliberately
essayed to kill a few hours before. In a
communication to Sergeant Bloomer Ser
geant Andrews says: Read the newspa
per clippings and note the date of this
letter, September 17th. Just thirty-nine
years ago today we met at Sharpsburg,
Md., one of the bloodiest battles of the
civil war. You gave us a warm recep
tion for an early morning call. You should
have been neighborly and let us get in
position—at least allowed us to get over
the fence in a dignified way. When we
tumbled over that fence we had not had
anything to eat in nearly three days, so
you see we were hungry and mad, too.
My first shot was aimed at a color bear
er's breast, but my gun snapped.
I have always believed that you were
the man. but will leave that for you to
decide.
"How bad I wanted to see the colors fall,
and how small I felt when my gun missed
fire. But fate favored you and I thank
God it was not my bullet that struck you.”
We were fighting for what each one of us
believed to be right. At the same time
the north dubbed us, rebels and traitors
"If you had been in my shoes would you
have turned your gun on your own fire
side and those you held dear? NO, you
were too brave a man for that; you would
have fought for home and kindred. So
Cut Schools and Pensions One-Half.
BY REV. SAM P. JONCS.
CARTERSVILLE, Ga., Oct. 16. 1901.
The august assembly known as the
Georgia legislature will soon convene
to make and unmake and amend laws
for the good people of Georgia. If
the voice of the people Is heard and
the wall of the taxpayer is listened
to there will be some laws amended
or abolished on appropriations.
I see that Governor Candler in his
forthcoming message will make some
recommendations on pensions. I
know there is a sentimental tide that
gushes and fumes about the old sol
dier and all that sort of thing, but
there is a great deal of difference be
tween gush and sentiment and walk
ing up to the tax collector’s in No
vember and December in each year
and planking down some hard cash
that you need mighty bad for some
other things. I expect if the truth
was known some of the members of
the Georgia legislature pay poll tax
and that is about all they do pay.
What does that sort of a fellow care
about appropriations? I believe the
whole membership of the legislature
ought to be "jacked up." as the boys
say. by their home constituency and
taught a few lessons before their as
semblage in Atlanta. Cut down on
school appropriations, gentlemen, one
half; cut down the pension roll one
half. You need not be afraid. The
rank and file of the people of Georgia
will stand by you.
A crowd that gushes makes a heap
of noise, but the taxpayers haven’t
begun to kick much until about now.
The thing has gone far enough. Os
course every public school teacher,
every county commissioner and the
state school commissioner will paw
sand and dirt over the moon if you
begin to cut down the public school
appropriation. There will be a wall
from Dan to Beersheba on the old sol
dier business, but go it, gentlemen!
No time for pills and powders; sur
gery is the thing now. Get out your
knives and go to work.
I am very much In hopes the legisla
ture will pass an anti-saloon bill also.
We won’t need the taxes or revenues
which the state gets from saloons If
you will cut down appropriations, and
it Is a calamity to debauch the fathers
and older brothers of a family in or
der to get money to educate the kids.
Better to have the older ones sober
and the younger ones more Ignorant.
I am In hopes also that the legisla
ture will enact a law which will give
a salary to solicitors general. That
perquisite business has debauched
many courthouses and stained the rep
utation, to say the least of it, of more
than one solicitor and judge. A judge
who plays the gap boy and turns in
the cows for his solicitor general to
milk is a disgrace to the whole busi
ness and will bring courts of justice
into contempt. One of the superior
court judges told me from hta own lips
that he fined gamblers Instead of Im
prisoning them because the officers of
the court had to live off of the fines
and forfeitures of his covrt. He didn’t
seem to understand that he was con
veying the Idea to me that his court
was a little grist mill, just run for the
toll.
I want the legislature to pass an act
that will enable the members to pass
a saloon without going in. A whisky
soaked legislator ain't fit to make laws
for a dog kennel. I hope the legislature
will also reach some conclusion on the
Atlanta depot, if Oom Hall departs
this life before they adjourn. Let the
legislature, when It assembles, deter
mine what ought to be done along
these lines and do it. They may not be
elected again, but they have already
had all the honor (?) there is in it. And
1 am sure tnere is no money in it, un
less they trade and traffic, and that
outlaws a fellow with himself, wheth-
THE SEMI-WEEKLY JOURNAL, ATLANTA, GEORGIA, THURSDAY, OCTOBER 24, 1901.
you see I have no apologies to make, but
under the same conditions would do so
again." ' _
Near the same place a short time after
the scene changes. One ot the boys in
blue was reeling against a large oak.
wounded in the knee with his clothes rip
ped up. bathing his wound from his can
teen.
On his knee, in front of him, was one
of the boys in gray, holding an earnest
conversation with him. All enmity was
over. We were no longer enemies, but
civilized American soldiers, who believed
in extending a helping hand to an enemy
in distress. At that moment, however, the
shells from the Federal guns were burst
ing around our heads like firecrackers.
I have thought of you many times and
wished I had done more for you, but I
have never been able to make out just
what that would have been. The southern
cross went down In defeat, but not in dis
honor. We put up the best fight the world
ever witnessed. With nothing but honor
left, we still had one consolation. We
gave you boys hell while it lasted. But
times have changed, and the south with it.
Today we are a reunited people; no
north, east, south or west, but one com
posed of many. The south is now as loyal
to the Union as the boys who wore the
blue. .
I would like so much to see you and
grasp the strong right hand that held the
Stars and Stripes steady and erect on that
bloody field 39 years ago.
Continuing Sergeant Bloomer writes:
Mv friend Andrews, I quite agree with
you and think that the people of the south
are todav as loyal to the old flag as any
people can possibly b£. They have de
monstrated that fact by their action in the
Spanish-American war. And God knows,
and we know, that braver and better sol
diers than the boys that wore the graj
in 1861-65 were never born. And such a
thing as war and strife will never again
be known among our people. Nothing in
this world would please me more than to
meet and grasp yours and that noble cap
tain's hand in the deepest and most sin
cere friendship.
I will send you a shadow of myself tak
en about ten years ago to put in your
Yankee picture gallery. So you can see
what a specimen you would have spoiled
had your gun gone off when you were so
ven' anxious to bring me down with those
colors. Would be pleased to receive your
shadow and to hear from you again; also
to know how the world, or the people in it,
used you since you came over that fence
to see me.
Hungry, mad and with blood in your
eyes on that memorable 17th day of Sep
tember, 1862, 39 years ago, T am yours
tru ly, SAMUEL BLOOMER,,
Ex-Color Sergt. Ist Minn. Regt.
I take off my hat to Sergeant Bloomer.
He is both generous and brave. How he
must have suffered during those four
days and nights. Nothing less than the
horrors of the damned. The famous Un
ion general. W. T. Sherman, in his defini
tion of war said:
“War is hell!”
Our new president says: “The time has
now come when we all can admire the
heroic deeds performed by the American
soldiers during the civil war, whether he
wore the blue or the gray.”
W. H. ANDREWS.
Sugar Valley, Ga.
CASTORIA..
Bears the Kind YooJlavrMw Bought
Signature
of
er the public ever finds it out or not.
I heartily commend and compliment
our county in the management of her
negro rapist a few days ago. Judge
Fite is one of the best judges Georgia
has ever had. He is clear-headed and
has the nerve. He notified the popu
lace at the beginning of the trial the
other day if a pistol was found on
any man in his court room he would
fine him S3CO or send him to jail. He
gave the boys to understand there was
to be no monkeying. Before the negro
was brought to jail he was in one
sense the property of the mob, but
when he was put Into the hands of
the court then he was the property of
the court. If the mob finds the negro
and lynches him on the spot, that is
their job. but when he comes into the
hands of the officers of the law. then
he is their game and it is right for
them to take care of their game. It
is a distressing, heart-sickening sight
for a lady to have to go into court and
testify, but better that by far and
have the law take its course, than
that the maddening furies of a mob
should rush over courts and sheriffs
and lynch the victim. Let the rapist
know it is death to him. either by the
mob that hunts him down and lynches
him on the spot, or if the officers of
court get hold of him it is a speedy
trial and a speedy execution. The
wretch does not deserve to live an
hour beyond the smallest limit of
time the court can act upon. The
devil and his angels can take care of
a fiend like that better than this world
can, and the sooner the devil gets him
the better It will be for society. The
negroes of our town and community
behaved loyally. Many of them were
outspoken in threats and condemna
tion. The negroes of Bartow county
no more uphold a rapist than the
white people condone his act.
My neighbor, Mrs. Felton, is giving
The Journal some interesting articles
these days. She surely wields a ready
pen, but she has as warm a heart as
her pen Is trenchant. She Is my old
preceptress. I love and honor her as
gray hairs adorn her brow.
Yours truly,
SAM P. JONES.
P. S.—The scarlet fever cases in my
home are now convalescent. I begin
my work with a tour of ten days’ lec
ture engagements, beginning tonight
in Atlanta. The 7th of November
Brother Stuart and myself begin meet
ings In Mobile, Alabama. S. P. J.
Nonsensical Beliefs.
Westminster Review.
Half a century ago omens were still gener
ally believed in. So, too, were charms. I
had a cousin who seriously undertook to charm
away warts, and was believed to have suc
ceeded. She was supposed to have inherited
the secret from her father, a Wesleyan min
ister. My uncle, a farmer, and by no means
a credulous man, when about to visit London
for the first time, and feeling some trepida
tion. consulted a doctor, who. I believe, is
still living, the last surviving school-fellow of
the famous George Borrow. The doctor handed
him a small vial of quicksilver, as certain, if
kept in the pocket, to avert all harm. Doubt
less the doctor laughed in his sleeve, for doc
tors were then getting incredulous, and I
remember it being commonly said of another
practitioner that he believed neither in God
nor devil. Nearly twenty years later, when a
cousin who, born a Wesleyan, had turned
Quaker and came up to London to the annual
gathering of that body, he showed me, with
a smile, the Identical vial of mercury. His
mother, good soul, had borrowed it from her
brother so that her son might likewise benefit
by it.
REBELS ARE ROUTED.
KINGSTON. Jamaica. Oct. 21.—Letters
received from Panama say the Colombian
rebels lost heavily in a battle near there
last Tuesday. The rebels are concentrat
ing in a camp in the neighborhood and
both sides are preparing for a clash,
which it is expected will probably deter
mine the fate of the revolution.
A Visit to Mr. Benson, the Author,
At His Suburban Home in West End
Building a hen house Is rather an odd
occupation for a writer of books, yet
that was what Mr. B. K. Benson, author
of the successful story of the civil war,
"Who Goes There?” was found busily do
ing a few afternoons ago when sought for
an interview concerning his new book, “A
Friend with the Countersign,” which has
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MR. B. K. BENSON.
just been brought out.
It is difficult to imagine any one writing
of war and strife in the peaceful, quiet
surroundings of Mr. Benson’s home in
West End. It is on the edge of the suburb
with only one or two other residences
near it, and the house Is completely hid
den from the street by trees and foliage.
There is the most delightful old-fashioned
flower garden In front of the pretty cot
tage home, with dozens of rambling rose
bushes and evergreen hedges. It is at the
very’ back of the cottage that the author’s
den Is situated, shut off from any noise
save the prattle and laughter of children
playing in the yard, its windows looking
out on a miniature apple orchard. It is
an ideal place for isolation from the world
—a place in which to give oneself up en
tirely to the powers of imagination, and
this Mr. Benson seems to have done to a
remarkable extent. In reading his books,
the second of which is a sequel to the
first, one marvels at the truth and fact
crowded into them. They seem, and es
pecially “A Friend with the Countersign,”
detailed even beyond necessity and one
is astonished at the remarkable memory
of a man which can recall every turn of a
road and seemingly every branch and twig
along the roadside. •
However, when questioned as to the
truth of these details In “A Friend with
the Countersign,” Mr. Benson laughed.
"There Is really very little fact in it,”
he said. "The positions of the armies and
their movements are,' of course, true to
history, but the expedition which Jones
Berwick, the hero, undertakes and the
details of his various experiences are all
fiction, every bit.
"I have made no attempt,” he continued,
“to write gracefully. There have been
many objections to the short sentences
used so much through the book, but the
shorter the better for me, because I wish
ed to make it clear and appear real. I have
frequently rewritten a sentence a dozen
times in order to find a simpler word. If
the book Impresses the critics as all fact
it Is possibly the result of a capacity of
putting myself In the place of the char
acters. I suffer with them and rejoice with
them.
“That next to the last chapter,” con
tinued Mr. Benson, turning to that indi
cated as he spoke—“the one in which Jones
Berwick thinks he is about to die and
writes seemingly for the last time to
Lydia—l would not write that again for
a thousand dollars. For the time being the
suffering was as Intense to me as it would
have been in reality. I could only write a
little at a time and had to go out and get
my mind off of it.”
"Speaking of the title of the book, Mr.
Benson mentioned the fact that the for
mer story, "Who Goes There?” took its
name from the question asked by a pick
et on duty, and “A Friend With tne
Countersign” is the reply.
“ ‘Jones Berwick.’ ” he continued, still
referring to the title, "Is a friend be
cause so far as one man can take two
sides he is supposed to do so. On ac
count of his former association with the
Confederates he will not shoot them.
“When he finds himself In their ranks
as a scout of the Union army, he will not
shoot the Yankees. Though Berwick’s or
der from General Meade was not strictly
a countersign, it was in the nature of a
perpetual countersign, and bears out the
title..
"The story, I think, is a good example
of the compound plot; on the one hand,
the development of Ahe hero’s uninten
tional efforts to CBcfepe justice in the
courtmartial to which In romantic and
A SCIENTIFIC BREAKFAST.
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Put two eggs in a tin pint cup of boiling
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Whites will then be the consistency o's
cream and most easily digested. One slice
of bread with butter; cup of Postum Ce
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On that breakfast you can work like a
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noon. Your nevous troubles, heart palpita
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Why? You have probably' been living
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the body needs. That sort of food, and
coffee, is the direct or indirect cause of
more than half the ills the human body
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Grape-Nuts is a perfectly cooked food
and both that and the Postum Food Cof
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phosphate of potash obtained in a natural
way from the grains of the field and by
scientific food experts incorporated into
i food and drink. That element joins with
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A man or woman thus fed is scientific
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produced at the pure food factories of
the Postum Cereal Co., Ltd., at Battle
, Creek, Mich.
human justice he is foredoomed for the
part he took in the former book; in the
second place, the development of the
Mexican plot through the efforts of Scran
ton and Scherzer.
“There is much more invention in the
second book than in the first,” Mr. Ben
son continued. “Though there is little
fact In the details of the story, it is really
truth, accepting truth In its broad sense.
It Is romantic truth because It is all pos
sible under the circumstances described.
"The part of the plot referring to ad
vances made by Napoleon 111 to the Con
federacy with offers of aid, on condition
that it recognizes the Mexican empire
which he had established, Is all fiction, of
course, but It seems a very probable
thing for him to do after, as is histori
cally' known, he sought the aid of the
United States and was refused.
"The warp of the story is fact and the
woof is fiction or vice versa. Which is
the wars and which the woof, any way?
I confess I don’t know.”
But the question had to go unanswered
to the amusement of Mr. Benson.
"If there Is any realism in the book,”
he went on, "It comes from a power
to assume the feelings of another.”
As "Who Goes There?” and the sequel
are written to an extent from both north
ern and southern view-points, there has
been much speculation as to the side with
which the writer ‘ himself fought during
the war. It has been generally assumed
that he was a Union soldier and Grand
Army men have been especially enthusi
astic in their praise of the books. Though
Mr. Benson’s partisanship is known of
course to all of his personal friends, he
has so far kept the secret well guarded
from the public.
When questioned on the subject, he said:
“I don’t mind confessing now for pub
lication that I am a Confederate veteran,
and fought during the war with McGow
an’s South Carolina brigade. Os course it
was the hardest thing in the world for
me to make a mental metamorphosis of
my nature and view the matter from the
northern standpoint w’hile my' sympathies
are southern, but I forced myself to it.”
The fact that the author of these two
stories of the southern war was a Con
federate will be a matter of some surprise
and greater Interest to the readers of the
books, no one of whom will fail to at
test to the broad view and successful
handling of this subject of never falling
interest.
Though Mr. Benson denies that the sto
ries are true in detail, together they' form
an excellent commentary on the civil war,
and are in addition most interesting ro
mances.
Review of Mr. Benson’s Latest Novel.
"A Friend With the Countersign,” .by
B. K. Benson; the Macmillan company,
publishers.
“A Friend with the Countersign” is a
sequel to “Who Goes There?” by the same
author and like the former book is a story
of the civil w’ar.
If a person wishes a book simply and
solely for the romance and pleasing qual
ities this isn’t the one for him. This nar
rative of the civil war contains too much
action and vigor to suit him. It is a story
into which all of the excitement, trials
and horrors of war are infused, with no
attempt to paint them other than they
really were, and yet It has plenty of plot
to interest and a bit of romance interwo
ven. For a graphic, vivid picture of those
times it has few rivals in fiction.
The author has a wonderful ability to
present things as actually’ happening. The
quick, abrupt style effected by short,
pithy sentences lends action and reality
to the story. At times there is so much
detail that it becomes wearying, but to
wards the middle and last of the story
the Interest is held captive and.one loses
sight of minor defects. The story takes un
expected turns which increases the Inter
est of the reader; the writer develops the
plot gradually and with an artistic touch
that forbids any foregone conclusions as
to the final outcome and there adds a
charm to the story.
The story continues the experiences of
Jones Berwick where they left off in
“Who Goes There?” and some of the
same characters are introduced, with the
addition of several new ones necessary to
the new plot. There is but dttle reference
made to Berwick’s mental condition which
played such an important part in the for
mer story.
The book is one which shows careful
planning, fine analysis, and an excellent
knowledge of the historical facts with
which the story is concerned. It belongs
rather to serious literature, because it has
more value than a mere romance. With
the former book, it forms a valuable
comment on the civil war written with
a breadth of thought that is possibly with
out precedent from the pen of one who
had an actual part in the strife.
■I-1 »»»♦■»<■> UK »■»<■♦*■»♦<■■»♦♦+
♦ WHY THE ELEPHANT
♦ FEARS THE MOUSE. ♦
♦ ♦
•F By Raymond Fuller Ayera. +
+
4. (Copyright, 1901, by’ R. H. Russell.) 4-
i I >■»♦♦♦ 111 1 > 11 > >•♦♦♦♦♦♦
Years and years ago, when the animals
owned the whole world, the elephant was
the king of beasts. Being so much larger
than any of the other animals, he was
easily master of them all, and ruled with
an iron hand, or, rather, trunk. So old
was he and wise that he was known
throughout the land as Grandfather Jum
bo.
His only rival was Mr. Lion, and even
he did not care to make old Grandfather
Jumbo angry. Whenever, by chance, they'
quarreled,, Mr. Lion had to fly for his
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life, and this mortified him greatly, as he
considered himself far above the other
animals, and accordingly dreaded their
ridicule.
One day as Mr. Lion was taking an af
ternoon nap on his front porch, Mr. Mouse
came skipping by. This little fellow was a
well-known miscblefmaker and continual
ly getting into trouble through his prac
tical jokes. He stopped at once, and, mak
ing sure that Mr. Lion was sound asleep,
decided to have some fun with him.
He climbed cautiously upon the slum
berer’s shoulders and quietly pulled »his
whiskers. Mr. Lion sprang up with an
angry roar, but Mr. Mouse quickly leaped
to the back of the chair and lay quite
unseen. Mr. Lion, seeing no one about,
resumed his seat and soon fell into a
doze, only to be rudely reawakened by a
sharp tug at *his mustache. This happen
ed several times.
Finally, Mr. Lion, too angry to sleep,
only pretended to doze, and out of the,
corner of his eye saw Mr. Mouse climb
upon his shoulder. Then, with a quick
grab, he caught the little joker in his
huge paw. Mr. Mouse found himself
held up by the tail, and there was Mr.
Lion wide awake, licking his chops,
showing his long, white teeth, and growl
ing so terribly that the little prisoner was
almost frightened to death.
“Oh, please, Mr. Lion, let me go. I was
only driving away the mosquitoes!” he
cried.
“I have always made it a rule to eat
any one who interfered with my mosqui
toes,” replied the lion.
Mr. Mouse begged and prayed and
squealed, but all in vain, and he was just
about to disappear down Mr. Lion’s
throat when he had an idea.
“Just one minute, Mr. Lion,” he cried,
as the huge red jaws yawned before him;
“if you will only let me go I will tell you
how to become the King of Beasts.” Mr.
Lion only grinned, and the sight of his
long teeth made Mr. Mouse shiver with
fear.
"Let me go,” continued he, “and I will
find Grandfather Jumbo at once, wait un
til he is asleep and creep into his ear.
Then I can make him do anything I
wish.” This interested Mr. Lion greatly,
but he did not let Mr. Mouse go. “He
will pull you out and squash you,” he de
murred.
“But he can’t pull me out, for his
trunk is too large, and I can bite him
if he refuses to do as I say,” insisted Mr.
Mouse.
So, finally, after much argument and ex
planation on the part of the mouse, Mr.
Lion let him go.
Mr. Mous'e lost no time in getting to
Grandfather Jumbo's house, but it was
such a long way that it began to grow
dark before he finished his journey. Then,
for a while he had a terrible time, fall
ing over stones and stubbing his toes in
the dark. After awhile the moon arose,
and then he could get along better.
At last he came to where Grandfather
Jumbo and his wife were sleeping, under
a big palm tree, for the weather was
very warm.
They looked so large as they lay there
in the shadows that Mr. Mouse felt his
courage all leave him with a rush; his
heart thumbed so loudly that he was
afraid it would awaken the sleeping ele
phants, but he held his ground.
After a time, as neither of the sleepers
moved, he pulled himself together and
carefully crept toward Grandfather Jum
bo. The elephant’s head was so extreme
ly high that one ear was entirely out of
Mr. Mouse’s reach, while the other was
pressed close to the ground.
Mr. Mouse trembled and shook, but
started to climb up Grandfather Jumbo’s
trunk. Suddenly he heard a great explo
sion, and found himself lying on his
back on t..e grass several feet away.
Grandfather Jumbo had sneezed.
Mr. Mouse lay quiet for some time,
rubbing himself tenderly, for he had been
badly bruised. Then he sat up. He heard
a loud rumbling like distant thunder.
Grandfather Jumbo was snoring. Mr.
Mouse shook his fist at him. and run
ning quickly up his trunk crawled into
his great ear.
Mr. Mouse reached his goal just In time,
for his little feet had tickled Grandfather
Jumbo’s delicate neck, and an immense
trunk came whisking through the air,
just missing Mr. Mouse’s coat tails. Now,
however, he felt safe and shouted in a
loud voice: “Get up, you old Lazybones.
Get up before I kill you.” Grandfather
Jumbo sprang to his feet in a great hurry
and snorting fircely looked all around, but
could see no one. Then, thinking he had
been dreaming, he heard the same voice
say: “Surrender! Surrender, you old five
legs, before I eat you alive.” Grand
father Jumbo began to be frightened, for
he could not find where the -olce came
from, although It sounded to be right be
side him.
“Who are you?”he cried. "Show your
self, so I can break every bone in your
body.”
“I am Old Man Bltem-Bltem,” replied
the voice. “I have twenty-seven thousand
and three teeth and I intend to use them
all on your head in a minute.”
Grandfather Jumbo charged all about in
the woods looking for old man Bltem-
Bltem, but not finding any one, came back
to his wife, who had been awakened by
t,he noise. She acted just like the cook
does when she Is angry and you have
tracked up the clean kitchen floor with
your dirty boots. She told Grandfather
jumbo he should be ashamed of himself
awaketaing people at this time of the night
and disturbing all the neighbors. Grand
father Jumbo kept getting more and more
frightened. Mr. Mouse continued to do ter
rible things and nothing the poor elephant
could do seemed to be of any use. “Where
arJkou?” he asked, and the voice replied:
“Here in your left ear, and I am going
to begin biting you in a minute unless
you surrender.”
Grandfather Jumbo tried to get his
trunk in his left ear, but the end was too
large. Then he tried to poke Mr. Mouse
out with a little stick, but he only suc
ceeded In hurting his ear. At last he felt
a terrible pain in his head. Mr. Mouse had
begun to bite. The pain was so severe that
Grandfather Jumbo went almost crazy. He
began to beg that terrible old man Bltem-
Bitetn to come out of his ear and leave
hint in peace.
"Not until you surrender,” replied Mr.
Mouse.
"Tixwt I will never do t ” answered Qrand-
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father Jumbo.and Mr. Mouse gave another
bite. That was more than Grandfather
Jumbo could stand, and he promised to
do anything old man Bltem-Bitem said.
“Go down to Mr. Lion’s house,” com
manded Mr. Mouse, "and hurry along, too,)
or I will give you another bite.” So,
Grandfather Jumbo started off at a great
rate and soon reached the place where
Mr. Lion lived. •
"Knock on the door.” ordered Mr. Mouse,
and Grandfather Jumbo did.
Mr. Lion came out half asleep with,
his nightcap on his head.
"What do you want at this time of •
night,” when he saw who It was. “Can’t'
you be satisfied at chasing me around in i
the day time without coming-here to dis- 1
turb my sleep like this?”
“I have come to surrender,” answered'
Grandfather Jumbo. ''
"Kneel down," commanded Mr. Mouse,
who was still in his ear. Grandfather Jum- 1
bo hesitated for a moment, for he was |
very proud. Mr, Mouse gave him a? little [
bite just to remind him how things stood,
and Grandfather Jumbo fell on his knees ‘
in a great hurry before Mr. Lion and]
surrendered. ’ •
“You can be king of beasts,” he said I
to Mr. Lion. “You can be anything you
want to if you will only take this terrl- i
ble Old Man Bltem-Bitem out of my ear.” ’
“Shut your eyes,” commanded Mr. I
Mouse, “and don’t you dare to open them i
until I give y’ou permission.” Grandfather |
Jumbo closed his eyes and Mr. Mouse (
jumped quickly out of his ear and climbed j
upon Mr. Lion's shoulder. , * |
“Now open your eyes," he cried. Then I
Grandfather Jumbo opened his eyes and (
saw Mr. Mouse sitting upon Mr. Lion’s i
shoulder, throwing kisses at him. He took •
one good look at the little animal that;
had made him surrender, and, jumping
up, ran off as fast as he could go, so that |
Old Man Bltem-Bitem could not get into*
his ear again.
Ever since that day the lion has been ]
the king of beasts, and to this day the;
elephants are terribly afraid of mice and
will stand upon their hind feet and call'
for Mr. Lion whenever they see one about, j
Negro Shoots Woman to Death.
COLUMBUS, Miss.. Oct. 21.—Perry <
Beckwith, a desperate negro, shot and*
killed Instantly Malinda Williams, also'
colored, yesterday.
He was captured about two miles from
town, where he had attempted to hide
himself in a treetop.
«e'• 11
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QUARTS W=
EXPRESS PREPAID.
the celebrated Mountain Dell .
iskey is distilled upon the |
-fashioned plan, over slow ,
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ilpulated old whiskey of
ran teed purity.
Your Money
Back If <
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We will send by express,
prepaid, four fun quarts
of 8-year-old rye. for
JS.IS. and if you are not
In every way satisfied,
return at our expense,
and your money will bs
r e t u n d ed. Everything
, shipped in plain cases.
Address all orders to
The Mountain Dell Co., \
Distillers. Dept, A, Atta ata* Ga. j
