The National tribune., 1901-10-31

But to Georgiana Goodspeed he almost
weekly graphically pictured the scenes
through which he passed mot boastinGly).
not putting himself in the foreground, cX-
cept incidentally, but, like an artist, paint
| ing the cvcrchanSinS scene
| 1t gave him something to do. and She
| il was so "aSy to write TO her, even strange
and diSjOlHtcd things-she understood so
perfectly, and in her reply she never
missed a thought or incident of which
she did not make much or little, as the
subject required; then she was so fully
alive to the great things that were pass
| ing. She said little or nothing of herself,
her father or home, but the great ques-
tions of the day, the moving of the vast
armies, and, withal, through every line
and sentence there breathed such n
strength of loyalty, of brave, helpful com
radeship, that her letters were always
welcome.
| But the darkest hour to Joseph Linden
of all that four years of black night was
during the two days battle of Chicka-
mauga.
1t was the evening of the second days
conflict; the sun, like ball of fire, shOne
dim through the smoke and mist. Now
| the enemy had forced them back again,
but only few yards, and again they
took their stand; but many had fallen and
/ lay exposed to the mcrciless fire of both
armies. Among them brave Lieut.. easy.
Joseph Linden, at his side, did not see
him fall, but later, as the smoke lifted
little, saw him lying on the ground. He
left the ranks and fearlessly walked to
the place where he lay.
easy smiled up at him feebly. Linden
knelt and tried to stanch the flow Of
blood from wound in one shattered arm.
1T is no use, Joe. lock here and he
pulled the blood soaked coat aside, and
then covered again the great. gaping hole
ill his breast, and Linden knew, too, that
it was no use.
My wife's picture, joe" he whispered,
huskily, ''and the boys, the boy | never
saw; get them out of my pocket. | would
not like for them to get them-and tell
her. joe
The lips still moved, and Joe bent his
ear close, but no articulate sound came.
The musket-balls dropped thick about
him, and the shells plowed the earth at
his side but for all he needed they might
as well have been the tinted falling leaves
of an Indian Summer or the apple-blows
as they used to fall upon his face as he
lay beneath the trees in the old orchard
at home.
Whether the time was long or short
he did not know; he only knew that he
stayed until the last, then Strengthened
the limbs, folded the hands, put the blood
soaked pictures in his pocket and walked
back to his place. No one had seemed to
notice that he did either Il brave or reck-
less thing-he did not know it himself
he only felt in n dull way that easy was
dead. 1t was not until afterwards that
the full force of his bereavement came
to him, for easy from the very first had
been his stanchest friend, and no one out
side the army could understand all that
that meant. Then a little grain of com
fort came to him-he would write it all
to GeOrgiana: she would understand and
she could sympathiZe.
Had he known he would at least have
hestated before adding even one more
straw to the already overburdened girl.
Yet how could he know that this woman,
she seemed to him, who could and did al
ways write him such sympathetic, such
brave letters, had her own battles and
her own burdens to bear.
Ito be continued)