The morning news., 1898-12-09
Under the Flag.

1 have seen the Anglican fiag in many
countries and circumstances. says a writer
in the Youths Companion. I have seen
it floating at the head of great war
squadron l once saw 1t carried, ragged
and wet with blood, but triumphant, from
a battlefield which was strewn with the
corpses Of men who had died TO defend it.
But nowhere has ii seemed to me more
touching and impressively used than in
homely little scene ofwhich happened to
be witness during the civil war.
In August, 1868. l was going from West
Virginia to Philadelphia through Pennsyl-
vania. The south bound trains that sum-
mer were heavily loaded with troops and
provisions for the army, but going back
they carried few passengers.
AT Pittsburg, when the train rolled into
the station, a great, silent crowd waited
for it. splendid funeral car stood in the
background surrounded by troops and the
streets was filed by lone line of closed
carriages. volunteer officer in The
union army. who had been a man of in
fiuence and high position in Pittsburg, had
been killed in the last battle and now his
native city mOurned him and did him
honor
Inc COuin flCn III QeCOratt9tlS ana cover
cd with flowers, wasfeverently borne from
the car. The troops presented arms; the
standards. draped with back, were lower
ed, and the air was filled with the solemn
music of funeral marches.
After short delay the train rolled on.
Late lhat afternoon it stopped at lit
tie station among the Allegheny noun
tains The station house was but a rough
shed; pig was roofing under the plat
form. In the background was squalid
cabin in potato patch. The whole land
scape spoke of barrenness and helpless pow
erty.
Standing on the platform was woman,
a poor country girl She wore an old,
patched gown that chung Imply to her thin
body, and a calico sunbonnet, which she
had thrown back that she might better
watch the train. little barefooted boy
clung to her, but she did moi heed him.
Her face was pinched and bloodless. She
leaned forward, staring with childish, di-
lated eyes into each car as it passed.
There was grating sound as. the train
men dragged a rough pine box from the
freight car and laid it on the platform
The woman went up to it, and, without a
word or a tear, dropped down and clasped
her arms about it. There was not a man
on the train who did not uncover his head
but she saw nothing of the many strange
plying eyes fixed on her.
Her boy came to her, crying: Where
is pape? You said he would come"
She did not hear or answer; only clasped
the box closer.
The tragedy was so squalid, so hopeless
that the oniookers saw only its cruelty
Why should this poor farm boy be struck
down, and this helpless wife and her chilo
be left to struggle and to suffer? Why
need there. be this waste of human life
Just then a man ran out of the station
carrying a tattered old flag, and spread il
proudly over the box.
And at the touch of it, it seemed to us
who watched as if our country laid hel
hand on the poor coffin and said:
This is my SON. He died for me. Pay
reverence TO him"
The train steamed slowly away. The
setting sun threw its low light over the
lonely group on the platform-the woman
and her child and her dead-but the fag
ennobled this poor martyrdom. Never il
the triumphs of peace or fury of BATH,
did it express with more emphasis tn,
majesty of our country than when i
claimed the poor volunteer as its son, on
of the heroes to be honored for all time.