News and citizen. [volume] (Morrisville, Vt. ;) 1881-current, 1893-08-10
TERMS SI.5O.

brain, the never ceaslng whisper of that
still, small voice, "What-what will be
their fate if | am taken?" God alone
can hear, God alone can know the
humility, the piteous pleading in the
muttered prayer that floats to him on
high, ''Oh, guard and protect them, and
if it be thy will in thy good time restore
the father to his helpless little ones"
All, it is one thing to go forth to fight
for an imperiled country, for an in
suited flag, to stake life and fortune
and hope to guard the beloved ones at
the freside, and to feel that one is bat
tling for them, for their honor, peace
and future prosperity.
But it is a thing far different to be
torn from loving arms and the smiles
and sunshine in the little faces, the pratt
tling and kisses of baby lips, to face
year after year a savage foe, knowing
full well that, defeated, only death can
be the soldiers fortune; that, victorious,
the only reward will be permission TO
stink back to the station whence one
came. 1t is the conquered Indian who
rides in triumph to the nations capital
and learns how great and good thing
it is to take the warpath every other
year. 1t is all we'll enough for the young
officers, the young troopers, to laugh and
cheer. 1t is the husband and father
among the seniors, the old campaigner
in the rank and file-men who have been
through many and many bloody fight
within some twenty years of national
peace and prosperity-men who have
seen dozens, hundreds of their cherished
comrades slaughtered in battle with the
Sioux-it is they who see the other side
of the picture, and ask: "To what pur-
pose? To what end?"
Outbreak has followed outbreak, cam
paign has followed campaign, each
marked by bitter losses in many a regi-
ment, each swelling the list of the
widowed and the fatherless, each ter
minated by the final surrender of hostile
bands satiated with the summers slaugh-
ter and shrewd enough to know that
they have only to wave the white rag of
submission to be restored to public con-
fidence and double rations. Step aside
now, gentlemen of the army, bury your
dead, patch up your wounds, go back to
your stations and get ready for another
shindy in the spring. You have had
your annual outing, the Indian only his
first innings. Now comes his second.
Now the bureau takes hold, and away
go the prominent leaders of the red re-
volt in the annual pilgrimage, the an
nual starring tour through the east, and
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 month ago were reeking
with the blood of mutilated soldiery for
whom desolate women and bereaved lit
tie ones are wailing hopelessly today.
Vac victisl
Go on in your triumphal circuit, red
brothers Rain-in-the-Face, Thunder
Bear, Blizzard Hawk. Rejoice in the
sunshine of your. prosperity; go back tC
your new lodges and unload your chests
of plunder, 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 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 n 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 q. 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
pling 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? Listenl listen!
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 passion of tears. Listen!
Sweet, soft, sad, the beautiful notes of
the thrice beautiful old song are waited
up on the gentle beeeze. Godi to how
many a breaking heart, how many
world worn, weary, yearning soul has it
not spokenl
Love not, love not, ye hapless sons of clay.
1t is too much for Mrs. Berrien. Brave,
self controlled, uncomplaining 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
sorrowing wife bows her head, and,
rocking to and fro in worldless grief,
mingles her tears with those of her be-
loved child.
Cheer upon cheer comes swelling on
the morning air. Cheer follows cheer
rs Berrien's men return the soul stirring,
Ioldierly 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,
tune. The trumpets answer
from the crowded cars. The sun bursts
through the eddyiug mist and streams
In glorious radiance upon the scene. All
here at the station throbs with soldier
song and spirit and enthusiasm, but
aboye-abovc, 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.
TO BE CONTINUED.