The times. (Owosso, Mich.) 1882-1897, 1888-06-08

Is Oh search ground CnaC was covered WIFI
grass, leaves and underground awhile
ago. There are trees riven with shot and
shell. Here is tree near me with twen-
1 ty-eight bullet marks. Here on my
right, and below me, are thirteen dead
men-eight in Federal blue. Therel I
can hear the sound of my own voice.
All very well thus far. / have it. At
tention salute the commanding officer.
What Is your name9
Robert Stoner.
| Where were you born?
Westmoreland county.
Where were you educated?
was graduated from Harvard.
What is your calling2
was educated for the ministry.
What is your rank9
First corporal.
Company letter, regiment and brigade
commanders.
Company B, Fifty-third Ohio in
fantry, Col. Appler. Hildebrand's
brigade.
Day of the week, and month of the
year,
Sunday, April 6, 1862.
There-that sounds all right--but feel
the hole in my head as plainly as before.
What is this? It is not the daylight
that is fading How long have l been
lying here9 That awful charge was
made before eight. My time must be
short. I feel myself growing strangely
faint and numb-and SO this isis DEATH
Darkness-utter darkness. More leaden
hail-will the battle never end? The
ground is wet. My clothes are wet
Gods blessed rain at last! What sounds
are these? Have the dead come to life?
Means, curses, blasphemy-my blood
curdles. Was that bolt Of lightning2
There is another-and others. They are
shells. These fleeing figures in the dark
ness--now can barely see them. I hear
the rumble Of artillery, the clang Of
sabers, the commands of officers, the
sullen curses of men. Shells exploding
everywhere. IT'S like hell itself, these
bursting shells, screams of wounded and
means of the dying. There is the cease
less tramp of many feet, the neighing Of
frightened steeds, all pressing back
TO escape the sweep Of the mon
ster shells. Limbs cracking, trees
toppling-God! what q swath the shot
and shell cut in the forest The living
trample the dead in their mad flight
they are needless of the fresh fallen; the
horses neigh in terror as they bear their
riders against saplings, briise and buffet
them against trees-and still the scream
ing shells pursue them. Theirs is the
agony of apprehension. 1t musJ be as
Sherman predicted; the gunboats on the
Tennessee are discharging their cargo on
the heads Of the enemy, nor selvage Of
timber, nor deep forest can avail them,
nor render more shelter than the open
fields. The belching cannon sweeps
them back from the ground they won in
the day. --..-
Blessed rain that moistens my lips.
Welcome the fiery gust Of shrieking
shells that sheer the forest and sweep the
enemy back as remorselessly as the ocean
surf lashes the beach upon which it casts
the ragged sea weed, limp and high.
Though you may not live to see the light
of another day, Robert Stoner, you
of deaths door that the field strewn with
Federal blue has been regained by the
blast of iron from the gunboats.
What strange sense is thisa I seem to
be midway between earth and heaven.
The air Is tremulous with strange, sweet
sounds. There are shimmering, shifting
lights, now vivid, now faint. Flashes of
light come and 60 like the fitful flames Of
musketry that flashed from the edge Of
that forest when the enemy assailed, then
swarmed upon us. There is q muffled
sound in my ears; tits not like the hol-
low rumble Of artillery, or the throbbing
Of the great guns that pulsed in the
morning air as the smoke of battle pulled
and lay low about the bristling batteries,
nor like the volleys of musketry that
rolled and ratified in angry response to
the ceaseless rush of mighty waters. The
lights are fading; sound ceases. My
broken arm that was like nest of needles
a moment ago is cold as ice. Is this the
endp Corp. Stoner, prepare to salute the
great commander
The faint morning shadows are slant
ing along the orchard slope. I see the
cows cropping the lush meadow grasses;
cool shadows lie over the sheep fold.
The mist hugs the swamp. The blue
birds and robins pipe their morning
songs, and sober faced Dobbin stretches
his neck over the bars looking for his
oats. The burrows measured in the
partly plowed field are damp. Tho lilies
in the pond are reflected in its placid
depths until the bottom looks like huge
bowl covered with lilies. The FLY filings
its heels at the oaken bars. Networks
Of vines clustering over the door bear
brilliant red berries-they are like coral
in the shadow-in the sunlight they CLINT
like fire as the suns rays kiss the dew.
What melody is it that rises clear and
sweet above the fluting of the bluebird
and the robinr The lark cleaves the clear
sky with Its song. A face-the face I
last looked at through mist of tears, as
babe her adieu tine afternoon I left
home for college-her face is at the open
door.
BY charms like thine, which all my soul have
won,
Who might not-ah, who would not be undones
And now she is mine. Dear grill
Her love is like Gods sunlight. 1t illu-