The Universalist. [volume] (Chicago [Ill.]) 1884-1897, 1888-04-14

and it tries me to talk about it. haven't
talked much lately"
"Oh, as God made us two" cried An
ME Laurie, "tell me the truth in His
sight and tell me all you CAM
at hurts me-here;" he put his hand
to his head, weakly. She began to see
how shattered, what wreck he was; the
force of his Incredible words urged itself
upon her before he uttered them, but
she stood apart until she had heard them
all; and SO he spoke to her.
He told her such of the pitiful tale as
his ruined memory served him to. 1t
was strange and broken story. Per-
hsps in the records of the civil war
there may be stranger, but no sadder
can lie found.
He supposed, he said, it must be thus !:
That he had been left for dead upon the
field, wounded in the head, captured in
the delirium of surgical fever, and made
maniac, or kept so in some of those pris-
ons Of theirs; but he could not swear to
her, for before God, he did not know.
This was his belief. He had further the
belief that he must have escaped; perhaps
got himself into some enemy's disguise,
and still being as he was, been swept
into some county hospital of the dark,
old-fashioned type, where he had been
detained, and no doubt with cause
enough, for years, more than he had
means OF counting, and treated-as he
was. He remembered something OF the
experience, and something of what be-
fell him after. He thought he must have
had periods of comparative sanity, in
their turn succeeded by attacks of the
other, produced by his despair OF free
dom. But the great trouble, he thought,
had been with his memory.
| The fate, not unknown to medical his
tory, which, after wounds, fever, and
hardships, paralyzes the memory, had
come upon him. His past was gone;
with it his home, his name.
He thought he had again escaped.
Perhaps there was a fire; he seemed to
remember fire, and that an old pa
tent was burned; but whether he es-
capped or was discharged he could not
say. That he had been free for several
years he thought was true. He thought
he had wandered westward and back
again. Once he had been put in county
house again; that was in Pennsylvania
somewhere. There, he said, he had
been cared for. He thought there must
have been real medical skill; he was
fond of the superintendent. One of the
doctors said to another one day, ut is
loss of identity" The words made
an impression on him; he did not forget
them. He grew better; they were kind
to him. He told them what came into
his mind, and he thought he mast have
told straight story, and that in time
they had discharged him; but as to that
he could not say. He was quite sure he
had never been able to give them his
name. He had tried hard to remember
his name; it was probable that he had in
vented something when it served pur-
pose. He had tramped for living, had
worked in the fields and on the roads, as
such cases do; he did not know how he
got along. He tried place in store one
cold week somewhere, but he could not
make change, and they turned him off.
His memory was always the trouble.
He used to wish he could remember
where he came from. When he escaped
he always thought he would get home;
it disappointed him that he never did.
AS he grew physically stronger, in the
open air SO much, and with his freedom
and the hard muscular exercise, he said
that he could remember how he strug-
gled to remember, and that by degrees
he seemed to catch and miss at some
thing, but it did not come. Still he re
manned man without past. Some
times he had strange, strong thoughts Of
rocks, a quarry, the sea; but these were
confused, and gave him distress when
he had them; he did not cultivate them.
"One day." he said-''it was evening,
and I had moved all day on a mans
farm. 1t was sunset, and all the men
were tired. 1t was q bright night. We
started to 60 home over the pasture-for
I remember that very well-in long
row, in little foot-path, single file.
Every man carried his scythe, and I saw
the sun fash on the blades before me as
1 walked along. The men began to sing,
while we we're walking,to keep their cour-
age up, for we were very tired. was
tired-tired in body; but my head was
cool and quiet. The men began to sing.
They sang those lines you know
Her face it is the fairest,
That e'er the sun shOne on.
And she's a the world to me-
When heard that / stopped short be-
hind the men, and I said, Good God !
for the song they sang was Annie Lau-
rie.' And it came upon me. My mem
DRY came upon me, like the brook that
flowed across the field, quiet and trick
ling, and then as clear as clean water
underneath the sky. 1 put down my
scythe, and fell upon my knees, and lift
ed up my hands and said: That is her
name. Annie-Annie Laurie. That is
my dear girls name And then said,
lash ! like that, George Cliff Annie
Laurie, Annie Laurie, Annie Laurie