The Hillsdale standard. [volume] (Hillsdale, Mich.) 1851-1909, 1863-06-02

- -
battle field, aud the soft autumn grass which
waited for the latter rains, was dreanched in
stead with precious beart-blood that poured
out for God, and for liberty.
81 can't hold out any longer; it's no use
let me lie down ID die" said the wounded
officer to the faithful private who had rescued
him from under the trampling feet Of men
and horses when be fell, and half led, hall
carried him off little way from the place
where the fight ragged hottest, in the late
afternoon.
"Don't give up yet, Cap'n." answered the
rough, hearty voice of the soldier "You've
got faint with the loss Of blood. Ill try tc
get you some water"
| But as the man laid tho oflicer down on
the soft grass under the oil oak tree. his hear,
msgsve him. The sharp settling of the fea
lures, the ashy look which had come over the
officers face, and the slow crimson tide from
the wouul little way from his heart, told
the truth only too we'll. Tho young captain
was dyingl
"Give me your hand, Tom," he gasped.-
"Don't 90 for the watter-it's too lstei The
works done for me. You'll tell nv boys
how died, and that sont them at last cheer
and blessing"
The private rough face worked for mo.
men,, but it was not the time to yiel to soft
emotion now. He stroked the brown hair
tendery from the cold forehead
"Anythig more can do for you, Cip'nT
he asked, in husky voice.
The officer opened his glazing eyes; a look
# otr lad int
"There's Mary" he said; "it'l break her
heart; and 'he little boy at home -papa's
boy-that l shall never trot on my knee
again. That's hardest Of all. Toni" and then
the dying man groaned ont, "Oh. God have
pity upon them! my wife and childP
He turned his eazs once more toward the
face VIII cb bent in mute sorrow over him -
"You." he said. "you have been faithful
friend-do one thing for me: cut lock of
hair from my head when l am gone, and il
you get home, take it 10 my wife, and tell
her sent it with my last love and blessing to
her and tho boy. Tell her | charged her
with my dying breath not to break her heart
because Tn gone, but to live for our child 3
sake-teI her too tina, did my duty to the
last, and wen, home secure n the peace and
the love of God !"
The last words just struggled out Of the
white lips, and the young captain lay drad
under the old oak tree, where the sun hung
its broken festcns Of gold, End little way off
the cannon hurled its thunder, and the fight
ragged h t or The battle. field Of Autetam.
"Never! my poor liz le fathers boy, never! y
said the Young mother who had sat sewing
by the window in the pleasant autun days.
And it would have wrung your heart to have
heard her voice.
"But not when the three years are gonei"
pleaded another voice-a little cbild's, full Of
wonder and vague pain. "Won't papa come
back then, and hoist me away up to tie wall,
and say 'papa's mani be said he would
when the three years wer" gone, mammal
"They'll never Re gone for us, my child"
said the poor mother, and she clssped the lit
tie golden head to her heart, and wild sobs
'ocke'. her TO and fro, and the great anguish
of her resolution was beyond reach os human
speech or aid, and only God could Comfort
her!
And all owe, the land, in those fair summer
davs, are wives and mothers weeping n Just
such desolation, and wondering little children
understanding not that they are fatherless.
And so we stand still in the darkness Of the
night which has fallen upon us, aud look off
to the last in faith and hope, with eyes that
watch for the morning.