San Antonio daily light. [volume] (San Antonio, Tex.) 1886-1907, 1892-11-19


the sentimentalists swarm to meet them,
and wheresoever they stop hosts of our
fellow citizens throng to- smile upon
them, eager to clasp and shake the hands
that less than a month ago were reeking
with the blood of mutilated soldiery for
whom desolate women and bereaved lit
. tie ones are wailing hopelessly today.
Vac victis.
Go on in your triumphal circuit, red
brothers Rain-in-the-Fac Thunder
Eear, Blizzard Hawk Rejoice in the
sunshine of your prosperity; go back to
your new lodges and unload your chests
of plumber. the free will offerings of
your palefaced kindred. The war has
made you rich Your squaws and chill
dren revel in food and finery galore, and
should supplies begin to slacken up a lit
tie with the coming of another spring
shoot your agent, carry off his wife and
daughters, and start in for another sum-
mer of fun. AS for you, weeping widow
and children of Captain Something-ive
forgotten his name-shOt from ambush
by the Sioux last fall, get back to the
east as best you can, dry your tears, and
be happy on twenty dollars a month.
It's what one must expect in marrying
into the army
And now the last of the blue column
has passed through the western gate,
and throng of comrades surges after,
every man in the garrison, not other
wise on duty. trudging down through
the mist and mud to see Berrien's bat
talon to the waiting train. The guard
springs to arms and falls in line-the
guard whom Brewster was to have re-
lieved at eight a. m.-and again the
major lowers his saber in acknowledge
ment of their salute, and so, down the
winding road, tramp, tramp, steadily,
cheerily, even joyously, they go, and
the broad parade above is silent and de-
serted Women are sobbing in one an
others arms, and Mrs. Berrien, seated
at an upper window looking out to the
west, is stroking Winifred's glossy, rip
ping tresses- Winifred, who, kneeling
has buried her tear stained face in her
mothers lap Fainter and fainter the
martial strains come floating up from
the wooded valley. The band is play
ing another quickstep now, its prelude
full of vim and life and spirit, and
then What strange inspiration has
possessed the leader? Listen! listen! I
Winifred raises her head and looks one
instant with dilated eyes into her moth
er's pallid, quivering face; then, cover
ing her ears with her slender hands.
burrowing again into her mothers lap,
she bursts into a passion of tears. Listen!
Sweet, soft, sad, the beautiful notes of
the thrice beautiful old song are waited
up on the gentle beeeze. God! to how
many a breaking heart, how many a
world worn, weary, yearning soul has it
not spOkenl
Love not, love not, we hapless sons of clay.
1t is too much for Mrs. Berrien. Brave,
self controlled, accomplishing as she
has been through it all, this is test be.
yond her strength. Down comes the
window with sudden clash, and then,
drawing her daughter to her breast,
clasping her in her loving, sheltering
arms, the mother heart gives way, the
Borrowing wife bows her head, and.
rocking to and fro in worthless grief,
mingles her tears with those of her be-
loved child.
Cheer upon cheer comes swelling on
the morning air. Cheer follows cheer
as Berrien's men return the soul stirring,
soldierly goodby. Guidons wave from
the thronging platforms. Bronzed faces
peer from every window. Hats and
forage caps are tossing on high. Men
rush alongside the slowly starting train
for one last handclasp of the departing
comrades. The echoes ring to the roll
licking notes of their old charging,
fighting tune. The trumpets answer
from the crowded cars. The sun bursts
through the eddying mist and streams
in glorious radiance upon the scene. All
here at the station throbs with soldier
song and spirit and enthusiasm, but
above-above, where in mournful pre-
monition one poor army wife is weeping
over three little curly heads pillOwed in
her straining arms, there comes no sound
of soldier triumph, no echo of soldier
song. Sunshine and stirring music fol-
low the swiftly speeding train, but all is
dark and desolate now where gladneSs
reigned but day gone by.
CHAPTER VIII.
Letters from the front! , What JOY
and comfort they bring!-for every
writer seems bent on convincing the