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VOL. V. J. H. & W R SEALS,) ggggg&Z ATLANTA GA., SEPTEMBER 20th, 1879. Terms ia advance:-; Sfitg-e^-SS No. 219.
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GEX. HOOD'S ORPHAlfN.
BT KELLI HEHBKRT.
TEMr y° u 8 lve them a stone?”
D.< D/-vw 1.bat human hands
By neV. I brave,
A SPECIAL
., -elr orphan children “bread,”
xi ue. Kan raise a "stone” above their head.
And when a dying hero, full of trust,
His orphan children doth bequeath
To the brave men who, in the beat and dust
Of battle, bravely fought beneath
That hero's gallant leadership and eye,
Who can be deaf to his dear children’s cry ?
Build, then, O people of the Sunny South,
A monument that shall endure;
Put "bread” Into each hungry orphan's mouth,
And make their future oomfort sure,
For If In poverty and toll they groan,
How vain to Hood a monument of “stone.”
Atlanta, Ga., Sept., 8,1870.
DIES IRJE.
OR
Under the Stars and Bars.
BT CELESTE 1ILTCHIS8 BARKSDALE.
CHAPTER Vlir.
“ ‘They rest,’ ’their sleep is sweet.’ ”
In Memoriam.
October.
The end has come, and we lay our mother
beside onr father; looking into each other's eyes
for the oomfort we do not find. In the calm
Ootober morning we bury her; no sound save
the heavy olods as they fall upon the ooffin
breaks the etillnees of the solemn quietude.
Onr hearts nnit» in grief. ■*+— , ^ A
The brightness ot the sunlight, the parti-ool-
ored leaves that make the trees gorgeous in their
Autumn dress, the withering buds, the late
blooming flowers mook our wretchedness.
With one last look at the plaoid face, one last
kiss on the oold, mute lips, a few passionate
words of farewell, we turn away. Our mother
is dead,
November.
•Helen, you and Barbara help us rip up the
carpets,—all but the one in mother’s room,—
we must send them to the soldiers,’ Eve says;
she and Lila standing before me, soissors and
needles in band, ready for the task.
It may be Eve’s black dress contrasting with
her face that makes her look so white. She is
thin, and so unlike the Eve of former days.
Vaiarie enters with an open letter. She looks
down at onr warm oarpets as she says:
•It is terrible bow those poor fellows will suf
fer during the winter.’
•Yes,’ Barbara says, thinking no doubt of
her lover.
■The oarpet must go,' Eve declares, earnestly.
•Will you give your consent, Miss Helen?’
asks Lila.
•Yes we can do without the carpets,’ said Bar
bara, who is fast conquering her luxurious
habits.
So we proceed to work; thinking of those two
who have always direoted and enoouraged us
heretofore. 1 recall mother's loving messages
to John as I sew on the blankets intended for
bis men.
At night we gather in our oarpetless rooms,
talking hopi fully of a better day. Etlie
is our obief comforter. But for her
merry little faoe and innooant prattle we would
succumb to diapair. If we look sad or careworn
she comes to us.
■Dod is dood, auDtie; He said he'd tomfort
you.*
Muoh of it she learned from mother while she
was ill.
Deoember.
’Over year a since I have seen John,” Vaiarie
says, folding her pretty, hands in her lap and
looking at me wistfully.*
‘He will soon come, dear,’ I reply, oheerfully,
soarce believing my words however.
■Helen, I want him bo mnohl’ she cries, misty
shadows coming into her eyes.
That cry goes to my heart, I draw her to me
encircle her with my arms. Sympathy and
love are all that we have to give now.
■What is the matter? Can I be of any assis
tance?’
Pen's cold voioe comes to me from the door
way; abe glances at Vaiarie,a hard contemptuous
look comes upon her faoe.
We never speak to John and Vaiarie befor
Penelope, she, herself, is very guarded about
it; she never gives away to useless lamentations
Vaiarie, believing Pen a second Beatrice, who
would muoh rather her dog ‘bark at a crow
than a man swear he loves* her, is mute before
the eyes scrutinizing her so closely.
‘We were speaking of the war, Pen,’ I reply
evasively, considering it my duty to help Pen
keep her secret, and to prevent her dislike of
Vaiarie from becoming apparent.
The girl has striven nobly against this feel
ing, hut it will not be overoome. Something
rises like an ice berg between them, and Vaiarie,
instinctively conscious of it, rarely oppose*
herself to Pen.
‘When is John coming,’ Pen asks abruptly.
•I do not know, dear, I say, sighing. ‘I hope
he will oome soon.’
Vaiarie says, eagerly, unmindful i ow of her
usual reserve in speaking of John before Pen.
‘I oannot stand this much longer ; I shall die if
he does not come !’
•I suppose you would prefer his being here
to hold your skein ot silk, to defending his
country. After all, selfishness is the predomi
nant trait in every character. Vaiarie now
thinks it only just that John should remain at
The
• ieg Mr. Hill to-morrow. I was reading
loud, this morning, when she oame in
he room, these words from Xonng —
‘Oh ! the tender ties,
Hose twisted with the fibres ol the heart!
Which broken, break them, and drain the
Bonl.
)f human joy, and make it pain to 11 ve—
Ihe rushed out of the room, and I
ieard her sobbing as I passed the half-
loaed door of her room. Better ten
honsand times, live alone than try to
ili her heart *
■Who talks of hearts ?‘ asks Pen, oom-
og in. “You, Eve? My dear friend,
one day you wilt know just how little
•eople‘8 hearts have to do with a great
oany business transactional You know,
oo, how many hearts are broken, yet
till beat on and give ao«ign.
The day drags through tho’ storms keep out
the sun;
Lnd thus the heart will break yet brokenly
Uve on.”
At night before I retire I creep to
lve‘s and Pen's room. Eve sits up-
lght in bed, tears streaming from her
yes.
‘Listen, Helen !' pointing to Fen,
rbo is asleep.
‘No escape ! no eeoape!' the girl mur-
sure, piteously. ‘Oh, John, dear John!'
I go baok to my room. All night the
rinds sigh, the rain sobs: ‘no escape 1
o escape!'
Christmas day dawns gloomily. The
ay of all days has oome to ns again. It
s the weddiDg day of Barbara, Vaiarie,
’enelope. There is an unwonted quiet-
iobs about every one. Oar bereavement
ias been too reoent to permit ns to
sake merry over what iB after all a oom-
aon occurrence.
Eve and I are bnsiest of them all;
larbara is the most excited. Ten
•clock, th6 appointed time for the oer-
tnony, comes quickly on, but the
Dimeter does not oome. He sends os
Atlanta Passenger Depot on the arrival of the from the Ijcan Bridge in front pjt .word that he cannoy .'•me auiil evening.
’ ' IHE SUNNY SOUTH OFFICE. _
hoflre with her, while other sons, husbands and
lovers fsce cannon and musket. Selfishness 1
it is the ourse of our land ; it sacrifices patri
otism and honor on its altar.’
Vaiarie rises to her feet, saying ;
‘Penlope, I should think that you would be
too generous to tauut any one with want of
patriotism, when they have shown by words and
deeds that their country was dearest of all ob
jects. Your impetuous outburst is unkind
and anwarantable. Can I stifle entirely the
cravings of my heart ? Can I wholly pnt aside
my love for John and my desire to see him?
There is a rush of feet, and in five seconds
I hear Penelope's nervous tread above me, as
she paces her room.
•What is the matter with her,’ Vaiarie asks,
resuming her seat with a heightened oolor in
uer cheeks. ‘She is the moat incomprehensible
being I ever saw. Sometimes I think that John
has ’
‘Hush, Vvlarie ! Do not wrong John, and for
my sake, do not refer to this again. We must
not forget that this poor child has suffered ;
has been tried terribly. Be as kind and for
bearing to her as yon can. I must go to her
now.’
‘Helen, what on earth ails Pen’? asks Barbara,
coming into the room. ‘She went flying past
me just now, and her eyes quite frightened
me.’
I give Vaiarie a warning look and leave the
room. A bolted door bars my entrance. I
bear passionate sobbing inside. 1 go ont on
the verandah, gently raise the sash and Btep
in.
■Pen, I say,’ bending over the little figure
prone upon the bed. 'Darling, what is the mat
ter ? tell me, my sister.'
‘Dont ! dont ! she gasps,’ quivering like a
wind-shaken reed. ‘Dont oall me that.’
•Darling,’ gathering her in my arms, ‘yon
must not think that Vaiarie .’
She springs from my arms, stands before me
with burning cheeks and wet eyes, saying
fieroely :
Dont oall her name ! I hate her ! Would
that I never
I have wounded Penelope deeply. I put my I voioe from the parlor—‘yet if you wish, if you
•P-nelope,’ I say, very sorrowfully, ‘you must | whisper.
arms around har, entreat her to give up this
mad scheme. Between my desire to do right
a“d my inclination I struggle for a moment.
Then I tell Penelope that she is nnder my oare
and I can not permit her to entertain snoh a
quixotic idea for a moment.
A cry of rapture below stairs makes me panse
a moment. Valarie's happy voice ories:
‘John! oh John!’
I release Pen, turning I see such passionate
wistfulness in her eyes that I am loth to lease
her until she motions me to go.
As I eDter the parlor, Vaiarie half orying is
dinging to John. Barbara, Eve and Lila looks
on. Some one darkens the doorway, and Lila,
rushes forward, orying:
•Maurice!'
I look on as a spectator until Barbara gives
a little shriek, a mixture of glad surprise and
bright joy as Charlie Rogers encircles her pump
loim with his arms, J hn turns to me. His face
pales and his eyes rush over with tears as he
embraces me; and then draws me into the next
room, and holding my hands, whispers‘mother‘
when we are calmer, I repeat her dying mes
sage to him, and we mingle our tears.
It is a sad, face that Vaiarie next looks on; for
John loved his mother truly; but it does not
dampen her delight. Sae feels, for the time
being that he is hers, that his arms are about
her, that his love is all hers. In my heart I re
sent her happiness, her glad faoe in contrast
with Penelopes
Eilie comes in at this juncture, and it is
amusing to see Mr. Rogers bestowing fatherly
kisses and caresses upon her.
J >hn and V larie withdraw to the bay window;
Barbara an Charlie sit on a sofa; Lila and
Msnrioe go into the hall.
Eve, • 1 say taking the girl’s h^nd and looking
into her wistful faoe, ‘Penelope says that she is
gomb! north to her mother’s friends.’
•Do not let her go, Helen. It is madness; and
I cannot near have her leave me.’
Sue does not folly believe in her brother's,
dta h; she is going to hnnt for him.
•Do jou think she will find him? 1 in a quick
oomfort yonrseif. I oannot permit you to
speak in this manner of Vaiarie, of the woman
John is to marry.’ She shuddered as I said it.
•It you do not oontrol yourself, every one will
tsev ’ I cannot bring myself to wound her
so deeply
•Go on,’ she says curtly.
•Vaiarie has been plaoed in my oare bv my
brother. He will think u»rd of me if I allow
Bert is dead, I know it as truly as though I
had seeu him buried, but I only answer,
God grant that she may 1’
Night oooiea on gloomily. I go up to Pen’s
room. She is kneeling before a trunk that she
: has been packing, bat rises as I come in.
‘What are you doing, Penelope?’ I ask, as
I she comes to me.
_ I ‘I wat wroug to speak to Vaiarie as I did this
\on to rush in upon her witu vonr s^rc-.stic ‘morning Miss Helen,’she says, hurriedly, as if
words.’ 1 fearing that she would break down before she
‘Yon art right, of coarse. I will not subject m»kts the conf- ssion. ‘When I am gone pray
her longer to my temper.’ she sa>s eoiphati- ! ask her to forgive me; and you, will you not
cally, every particle oi oolor leaving her face forget and forgive wh t I said to yon ?’
‘The world is wide enough to put her ont ot my
reach. Don’t oe afraid, Miss Helen I am not
thinking of murdering Va'Htie, laaghing
scornfully. ‘I am going awHy going to be
rid of V»larie, who reminds me of J >hn ; tnie
ri i of Eve, the sight of whose fac- brin-s Bert
to
•My poor darling,’ I cry, touched by the
pleading face. ‘We oannot let you go—
•H len ! Helen!’ calls John. ‘Bring Mias
Pen dowa here I have something to tell her.
Of Bert! of Bert! I know' she cries, her
lace suddenly lighting. Oh, Miss Helen, I told
me ; going to be rid of yen. who tmn (torn ■ you I cannot help hoping that he lives.
me in my woe. Nay,' as I mane a yes nre of
dissent. ‘I do not blame yon ; I am n >t one to
be loved—only one to waste love not to gain it.
I dteamed Lst night that I saw Bert peeping in
at the wm low,’ coming oloser to me, "and 1
have thought all day that it would be best for
me to ascertain the certainty of his death
Mama had, and has friends in 'he North. I
will go to them, and search every Yankee prison
until Bert is found.’
I look at the girl in astonishment There
comes to me as plainly hs though some one
spoke to me the oonvereation 1 had with Mrs.
Revere before her death. I bad promised to be a
sister to th s girl. My heart is smitten with re
morse. She looks up at me with eyes so like tbe
that I forget Vaiarie,all,every one,save that dead
I have no distinct remembrance of going
down to John, but when I do Eve and Pen are
standing before him while he tells them of a
brother officer who was a fellow prisoner with
Bert at Foit Dele ware, and who heard a report,
bow reliable, he does not know, that he was liv
ing, with a bare chance of recovery the day
alter he was shot.
‘Will nothing I oan do win your heart? are
words tnat reach my ear that night as I cross
the ball.
I glance in the direction from where they
come and see Penelope and Manrioe Hill stand-
ng on the verandah. She raises her dark face,
and s-tys :
‘I have no heart to win—‘
There comes the sound of Valane’s happy
think it worth your while, yon may try to find
it—’
•Some day. John, I will be yonr wife, but not
now.’ says Vaiarie.
‘But, my darling, why put me off indefinite
ly ?' pleads John.
•Yes, Mr. Hill, I will be your wife—when
Vaiarie marries Major Ross.'
‘Why not now?' he asks, disappointedly.
‘Let me leave you as my wife;—then, if I fall,
I will have the assurance that you will be cared
for.’
‘Not now, Mr. Hill,’ in a tone of weariness.
‘I am going North—to hunt Bert—’
I pass on, wondering how much John's and
Valarie’s conversation has to do with Penelope s
decision. When she comes to me an hour later
she says :
‘Give me yonr congratulations, Miss Helen,
for I am to marry Maurice Hill.’ Then sud
denly breaking down as she meets my pitying
eyes, she says passionately. 'They will marry
and be happy, can I not marry and be misera
ble if I ohoose ? After I am married I may learn
to forget, learn to love the other; learn to be
ha”py. No that can never be. ’
I am not surprised when Penelope oomes to
me two days later and tells me that she has
promised to beoome Maurice's wife on the mor
row. Vaiarie is to marry John, Barbara Charlie.
I am very grave, for I cannot see the girl want
only sacrifice herself without pain.
‘It is best,’ she says, in reply to my entrea
ties. ‘I oan make him a faithful wife if not a
a loving one. He is a noble fellow, Miss Helen,
and deserves to be loved heartily. If he is con
tent with a heart full of ‘cinders, ashes, dust,
why let him take it and welcome.’
Eve appeals to her, but in vain. I carefully
question Lila.
‘Maurice has loved Penelope ever since he met
her in RiohmoDd at the hospital,’ she replies.
‘I have always wished it, but have never dared
to suggest snoh a thing.’
I talk to John about it.
‘Helen,’ he says, gravely, ‘if Maurice 'and
Penelope are Baited I oan't see that you or I
have anything to do with it Manrioe is all
that a woman can reasonably wish or exp-ct,
and will make Penelope a kind, devoted hus
band. She is too true a woman to marry a man
without loving him, as yon insinuated that she
is about to do. I am very glad that it is so; and
I am sure that Bert would approve her choice.’
•You do not know her as well as I do,’ ‘I re-
tarn, sighing.
And so they go on with their wedding pre-
perations, while Eve and I undertake to get up
a respectable dinner.
Barbara is, of course, muoh exeroised about
her dress. She was in monrning at the begin-
ing of the war, and has no dress suitable for
the occasion. After much deliberation she re
novates a lilac silk that I wore when she was
married to Mr. Crofton and whioh is almost
new as it was on that day.
Vaiarie selects a dark blue poplin that is very
becoming to her fair beauty. Pen selects noth
ing, does nothing but sit with folded hands or
follow Eve or me about to avoid a tete-tete with
Maurice or Lila.
The latter does not appear to notice it, but
Maurice does. He waylays the door of the din
ing room, and seeks in every way to induce her
to come ont to him. At night she sobs and
moans in her sleep until I am determined to
tell Maurice the whole truth, and seoure her the
release that she longs lor.
Vaiarie is so delighted that she congratulates
Penelope at least a dozen times. It is hard for
the girl to endure it calmly, but she does, and
smiles and answers carelessly : but hei heart is
breaking.
Eve and I stand at the dining room fire; the
girl comes oloser to me :
‘Helen, I fear Pan is not doing right in mar-
respite.- The day drags on.
John gives me directions about tbe plantation
and negroes, and advice about sundry little
matters.
At last tbe minister comes, bnt it is so late in
the evening that the lamps are lighted. We are
all assembled in tbe parlor. As has been ar
ranged, John goes to Vaiarie, takes her hand
and leads her forward. Pen leans her head on
my shoulder, her faoe as white as the dead’s,
her eyes stare at the two standing up to be made
man and wife.
The solemn ceremony begins—but does not
end! There is noise ont in the street, many
voices laughing and talking, jingling of swords,
neighing of horses.
‘Yankees, Mass John! Yankees!’ cries Seab,
coming hurriedly into the parlor. ‘Hide Mass
John! -more’n three hundred.’
•Proceed, sir,’ John says to the olergyman.
That good man is too overwhelmed with the
news, and knows too well that his wife and five
little ones need him more than the Federate do,
so he makes ‘discretion the better part of valor’
and ‘proceeds’ through a side window.
‘Fly, John!’ I cry urgently. ‘Remember Bert
and the others. To the baok door. To the
back door! Qniok! Go through the lot; down
to the river near the creek. Go, go!’ as he stoops
to kiss Valarie’s white lips.
Barbara faints; Lila orouohes down in one
corner; Vaiarie sobs softly; Eve snatches up El-
lie; Pen looks relieved. I hear her say to her
self, ‘Thank God this time for the Yankees!’ I
hurry out and with Seab’s assistance secrete ev
erything that will betray the presence of the
Confederate soldiers about the house.
I am hardly done when the order to surren
der com 68.
‘We are a household of women, sir, I say to
the men.
‘I look around as I speak, Pen has disappear
ed.
‘We shall search the house,’ growls one.
‘Yon are welcome to do so, ‘ I retort.
‘And the premises.’
‘Very well,’ I answer carelessly, my heart
beating loudly enough to be heard aoross the
room.
‘Where is Pen?’ Eve whispers.
I shake my head. What mad scheme has en
tered her head now?
'We were told that three Confederate soldiers
were here, ‘ says one offioer.
‘Three Confederate officers were here, bnt
they have gone,’ I answer.
‘What the denoe are all these women faintiDg
and crying about?’ he asks, eyeing the girls sus
piciously.
No one answers, and we gather aronnd the
fire. It is late before we leaye the parlor, even
then Penelope does not join us. I am in an ag
ony of suspense lest some of the servants betray
John to our enemies. But they are tried and
trne, and stand the test of questions and bribes.
Slowly and sadly Barbara and Vaiarie put
away their wedding finery.
‘I will never need it again, Helen,’ Vaiarie
says with a burst of tears. ‘I shall never Bee
John again, never, never!'
‘Yon said that onoe before, Vaiarie*’ I reply
soothingly.
‘If they bad only waited a few minutes longer!’
she goes on, ‘only a few minutes so that I might
have been his wife! Even that is denied me!'
We each make our lamentation unto ears too
full of their own doleful bewailing to heed us.
Five days go by—still no news of John or Pe-
neiope. There is a nameless fear in my heart,
and yet, Penelope is purity itself, and John is
the soul of honor. Maurice and Charlie were
taken prisoners. We saw them for a moment,
but they ooald give no tidings of John.
A deep shadow has settled over Valarie's faoe.
Continued on 6th Page.
U6TINCT PRINT