The Arkansaw traveler., 1888-01-14

uFaWn Oy SIX horses Wnlch WeIS driven by a man who managed them much easier than you could the old 'tclay bank" you rode to mill on Satur- days. "Yankee Doodlew w "Cakes and beer" What sweet synonyms they are!
 On Sunday evening in May brave men arrayed in soldier garb marched into the village church to hear the preachers parting sermon and receive the benediction of the people. They knelt in prayer; you, lad, watched the soldiers closely. One whom you loved-a rollicking, careless fellow, who had never seemed to know what sorrow was, so full of sport was he put his hands to his manly face; and as he held them there you saw the tears trickling down between his fingers. Next day at noon they lett for battle-and you never saw your friend again. The captain stood upon the court house steps and waved the flag for his men to admire-a flag which his sweetheart had presented them and which he received in their behalf. Aged mothers were taking broken hearted leave of their boys, whose own hearts were almost break ing through love of those they were leaving forever. Children chung about the knees of fathers, and wives ciasped their loving arms around the necks of those fathers, weeping and wailing in such Agony that the wonder was that God should stand such woe. Old men whose lives had hoped to be rounded up in peace, stood sadly by; and while they cheered with words, their souls were quaking with the knowledge that war meant death in awful form They saw that the evening of their lives would be shadowed by the dark storm of dissolution, and pride and patriotism alone could keep their sink ing spirits up. The line was formed, the march commenced the moaning of women was lost in the loud cheer of "Godspeed" from those who stayed behind and the deatening response from those who were on their way to death and glory; and then they marched down the dusty road and were out of Sight-most of them never to return, while the drum beat it's heart-throbbing roll and the band played in grandly martial strain "The Maid of Monterey"
 It was Sunday evening again. The landscape was clear and deep; the wind breathed gently through the trees that stood around the old home on the hill. The sunshine showered through the thick foliage and passing through the room fell upon the wall, trans- forming it into sheet of fretted gold. On the bed-an old r-poster, where you had lain when child and won dered at the pictures on the ceiling, which to your fancy had seemed to be chasing each other round and round in the most bewildering confusion was your mother. You held her withered hand in yours-yours, whose comeliness and strength you then al- most despised. Her cheeks were shrunken, her forehead tense as bowstring, her eyes deep set in their sockets, but preternaturally bright and looking straight at you. Her UICtlu CuiiiC SllOI anu IldIu. IlcI ilDS quivered, her chin trembled. She threw her arm around your neck as you bent down to kiss her beloved face, which, dutiful as you had been to her, had wept in secret because you had not kissed it oftener! She strove to rise. You placed hand beneath her head she sank slowly back upon the pillow, and then-you were alone in the world. What notes were those that floated up from the church in the val ley below-coming in as an invisible chorus, and lowering around and over your sacred dead, while their compass sionate melody let down the food gates of your soul and bade you weep, when but moment before your grief seemed too great for tears?-" Nearer, my God, to Thee !"
 Old music is writ on the palimp- sest of the heart. The stylus of time may have crossed and recrossed it till it is scarcely legible; yet the sounding of single strain can call it into lite again and make it's memories stand out in bold characters amidst all the may etchings of toiling life.