The daily morning journal and courier., 1898-04-18

been writing. At his dictation I had written words of love and cheer to Maggie" and the assurance that he would soon be with her. Poor boy! He seemed too young to be married and much too young to die. As stood in the cemetery, making a mental as well as a mechanical photograph of the scene a light wind swept through the nearby avenue of pines with the sound of an aeolian harp. One is profoundly impressed in this place at all times, by the music of the pines; perpetual requium, rising and falling with the slightest breeze. The morning sun- shine was sweet with the odor of flow CTS. The sky arching above seemed warmer and bluer than Skies at home. A mocking bird, perched on the arm of a black painted cross, filled the air with melody. He seemed to be singing Life is short and eternity long. What matter where the worthless frame is laid when the soul has gone out of it! Love cannot die and true hearts find each other again-somehow, some where"
 The reconcentrados' corner in this cemetery is a vast space of bare grav- clone great grave, to which frequent additions are made. Two or three men were busily throwing up dirt to make room for the days ipterments, occa- sionally tossing up skulls and marrow bones, to which nobody paid the least attention-though l noticed more than one cranium with hair clinging to it, as if it's owner were recently among the ;xy;y, of ho int i,,t h;e section are made without coffins-the bodies brought on stretchers, laid un- covered in the dirt, and quick lime shovelled over.
 Then I paid a visit to the dead house." where the carts were unload ing their morning cargo from Los Eos sos and the city hospitals. In the long dim room, with its concerted floor and iron barred windows without glass in them, a row of tables were covered with collins, and with cadavers on stretchers. Among the latter was a soldier-bare legs and arms sticking out and head swathed in his own dirty blanket; fair sample of the care with which Spain rewards her defenders. In @ candle box painted sky-blue but without a. cover, lay tiny baby, with red paper roses in It's hands and hair, waiting it's turn of burial by rude hands in Areconcentrados' corner. A ray of sunlight shining through the window, touched the haby's hair as with benediction. I spread my hand kerchief over the little face-but with small hope that the unfeeling grave diggers would leave it there when the clods were thrown over Luckily there are no flies in fever-infested Cuba Adjoining this chamber of horrors is another, piled to the ceiling with quick lime--a rapidly decreasing supply as the burials progress.
 At the suggestion of the sexton, I entered the carriage and was driven to the Semote, north eastern corner of the enclosure, to place which few who visit this cemetery ever hear of It is a large square pit, of what depth mo- body knows, filled to the brim with hu- man bones-taken from the old ceme- tery and from hired graves in the new one after the rental has expired. The tracks of wheels over crumbled bones show where horses and carts are driv- en in over the heap to deposit fresh loads. Hundreds of broken collins were piled in one corner, and thousands of skulls--some white and shining with long exposure to the sun, others with grave mold green upon them-grinned from every side, as who should say "This is consecrated ground!"
 FANNIE B. WARD.
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