Orleans County monitor. [volume] (Barton, Vt.) 1872-1953, 1892-02-15

the winter had passed, the father
joined the boys, and Mary and her
mother were alone.
1t was then that a letter came from
the north asking if Paul might come
He pleaded earnestly; but with her
sorrow fresh in her memory she felt
that she could not give her hand
across those graves, and no answer
ever went.
1t is then that first remember her,
as she would go by in her daily walk
to and from school. She had begun
the battle Of life bravely and had op-
ened school, and those who had
known her in better days admired
her brave little heart, and her school
was soon full.
1t was with the enthusiasm of a boy
of eight years that I loved her, and
on her almost daily walks to the
cemetery [ was her constant COM
crate burying grounds was under a
large arch, over which ran profusion
Of vines, and across the arch in bold
letters was the legend ''Tread Softly
Ger Our Fallen Heroes" Every
spring, on the day set apart for Me-
mortal Day, the grounds were strewn
with all the blossoms that the season
gave as to the muffled notes of the
''Dead March, the whole population
of the little town came to the foot Of
the tall shaft which crowned the
highest knoll to commemorate the
fallen dead.
After her mother, her heart lay in
those graves. No hand but hers
ever kept out the encroaching weeds
from that lot, and in the spring, when
the cedars and pines took on a green
er hue, and the trailing vines with re-
newed freshness ran rank and wild
over the headstOnes and tombs around
that lot has the greenest, and the sod
which grew there was the freshest
and softest to be seen in all the roll
ing space Of the soldiers graves.
To help her in this work, to carry
her flowers and bring her water from
the we'll to sprinkle the grass and
shurbs, was to me a work of love.
Late in the evening we would stay.
Then, when the long summer day
would begin to close around the no
rizon with it's dusky gray, I would
watch her as she gathered up her
wrap and little basket Of tools, and as
I would look at the soft girlish face,
so chastened and subdued, but SO
beautiful withal, with the lines of
grief merged into the peace of di-
vine submission to her Fathers will,
as we would walk silently back
through the cemetery between the
overgrown grasses of neglected lots,
I would put my hand in hers and it
seemed as if I were walking with a
spirit among spirits.
In the spring of 1868 the memorial
services had been unusually solemn
and elaborate. On this occasion
northern gentleman, since the war
true friend to the south, had been in
vited to attend and speak in memory
of those whose valOr he had before
taken occasion to eulogize. With him
came few friends. The party had
arrived at noon and proceeded di-
rectly to the cemetery, where in
speaking and other services the day
had been far spent.
When the sun was almost set and
all the crowd were we'll on their way
home, I walked quietly down the path
to Miss Mary's lot, we'll knowing that
there I would find the quiet little fig
ure Of my teacher. She was absorb
ed in her thoughts and did not hear
my step, so took my seat on mar
BILE railing to wait until she was ready
to go home.
To me the saddest pilgrimage of all
the day was that to those three grav
es; for there, after every one else
was gone and when the sound of the
dirge from the band was faint in the
distance, the slight girlish figure
would linger, and over the graves
which contained her loved ones would
pray to the God of battles for strength
to abide in submission the fat of His
will, even through it's iron had enter
ed her soul.
The spot and the twilight had be-
come ito me SO associated with her
and her sorrow as set and watched
her white fingers deftly twining the
vines over the headstones, or pulling
weeds from the grassy walks, that
any interruption seemed almost an
intrusion.
The slanting rays of the sunset were
casting long shadows from the mamie