Wheeling Sunday register. [volume] (Wheeling, W. Va.) 1882-1934, 1896-05-31
Written for the Sunday Register.
A HERO WITHOUT A HISTORY.

Don't even remember Jim Piss0t. WELL
How soon are the bravest forgot
l know he'll forgive me the story l tell
OF how he once CALAMITY fought
For the Union? On, no. though otten ne
For Old Glory met bravely the foe.
But this time he fought for six-year-old
lad
His own little motherless Joe.
A queer little letter to camp came for him
The eve of a mem robe fight-
Twas in big awkward print: My dear
Papa Jim.
Wv muther; faint natchural. kin tell It's
That's me ''ineeling Their by her side;
'Twuz took jist fer yuu-seems to smile
sames when she call you fore she dide.
"'You rite to your papa she said. and
SEND this
This picshur and-and-you kin say
The blot on your face is-is-only-a kiss
That soon will be faded away;
And-say-that-I leave you-at Ante s.
fer him.
I'm going-Pm-goin-jist-go.'-
That's all, 'cept she smiled and then whis-
pered TO Jim
Good bi. from your little boy, joe"
In the postscript he wrote: "Pleze send me
And sord and cannon err tn.
Er capshur johnny and send me his gun;
Look out, tho. don't let him ketch you. .
Jim cried till he laughed and then laughed
till he cried
Alone by the camp fire all night
Ger a shawody form. with his boy by its
side,
In that little dim faded tin-type.
Next, morning the rebels burst into full
DlOOm.
Like a garden of roses in spring.
On the roll of hill mid roar and mid
boom,
And singing of shell on the wing;
But up from below in response came a
From the mad, hot lannon's dark mouth
That quickly returned with an echoing
Or groan from the throat Of the south.
The right and left wings of the federals
In cloudy blue waves round the hill
And wrapped the Confederates strong in
their fold,
A fold that embraced a herat's chill;
And yet, through cyclone of bullets and
shells
They swan through the smoke for the
To silence forever their fierce rebel yells
Or let their own Yankees blood flow.
The deep fringe of rebels upon the hills
crown
Came tumbling out over its face.
And not leaden hail from their muskets
poured down
With rattle and roar to its base.
Yet onward and onward pressed swiftly
the Yanks
Up from the valley below
To lead them there broke with yell from
the ranks
A private-the father of Joe.
The smell of the powder and the heat Of
the air.
And musketry rattle, and boom
OF cannon and clashing of saber1 were
there
To sing of mans glory or doom;
And there was Jim Piggot as though from
the mouth
OF gun he just then had been shot
Right into the kettle that boiled for the
There to die or fight his way out.
The folds of a net they were gathered with
That Jim had drawn over the hill,
AS fish out of water 'twere's we'll had they
been
With a hook through every gill;
But fight for their rights as Americans do,
The Confederates battled that day,
Yet many form in the Unions true blue
Died wrapped in the coat of the gray.
That night, by a cannon, Jim Piggot was
found,
On his breast lay a sword and a gun,
A drummer boy knelt by his side on the
ground
To buckle upon him his drum
HE wanted my drum and begged me to
write
To Joe. but I can't understand
He kissed this and died''-and the pale
starry light
Touched the little tin-type in Jims hand.
WILL s. RICHARDSON