Year: 1864

Istepped into the post-office in the pretty
little town of P. this morning, to mail let
ter, and found the entrance of the one box
in which the white-winged messengers of
love and hate, business and banter, are de-
posted, obstructed by the stalwart form of a
man. He stood reading a missive which he
had just taken from that little opening among
the glass cases, his back to the aperture, his
face toward me. l did not ask the great
man, six feet high, with shoulders to match,
tC stald aside.


A rough old farmer was he His coat had
been left at home, and his soiled shirt, be-
sprinkled with hay-seed, told what had brought
him to town. 1t might be that he had seen
sixty summers, ard that his sturdy strength
had battled with ifes' difficulties for five de-
cades since the merry laugh of his boyhood
startled the squirrels among the walnut
boughs. Those broad, bony, toil-worn, bro wn
hands told their own story of labor as they
c!utched the open letter, into which his deep
gray eyes, shrinking away under the heavily
lashed brows, were gazing so eagerly.


That lock of hair, that letter, that look of
agony, that iron woe that had fallen upon
his sense and was crushing him! Was he
turning to stone? We're those livd lips
closing over the shut teeth made of steel ?
What did those stern eyes see through that
bit of paper and athwart that lock of hair !?
More of truth than ever psychologist read from
the same symbols. Away, away on the banks
of the James River, near by where the white
tents gleam in the summer sun, he sees a
shallow grave made ready for poor boy
that was wounded on the Chickahominy.-
Ha he clutches the paper tighter, and a
great surging emotion, like the last desperate
wave that dashes the mariner clinging to the
wreck into the black storm stirred sea, sweeps
over him.


He sees the column of soldiers bearing
the dead to that open grave; he hears the
low, shril fife, and muffied beat of the drum,
the chaplain's hurried prayer, and sees him,
ere dust is added to dust and ashes to ashes,
stoop to sever from that fair young head
that lock of aair to send to the mother who
every night turns her face eastward and sends
up a waiing supplicaiion to God to spare the
lie of her boy. her darling, her Youngest
He sees the earth receive the form, and hears
the tones of the fife as it trills forth Hail
Columbia while the sorrowful company
marches away.


Suddenly he starts. and his gaze is turned
not from the letter, but from the grave and
It's guest to the home near by where the
good mother stands, even now shading her
eyes from the sunlight as she looks to see if
the dust of his haycart is not to be seen
How can he meet her with that letter and
that lock of hair! How can he tell her that
| George is dead, that he was shot throug the
shoulder, that he has lain six weeks in the
hospital, that his young breath passed away
telling them Cut a lock of my hair for
mother and Nellie. Iel mother am going
home where war does not come"


How can he tel her that. He, the stout
hearted that cut down the forest forty year.
ago with strong hands, that chased the vol
to his lar, and tracked the bear that invaded
his fold to the depths of the forest with un
faltering steps? He who has not wept fol
years, and who could walk to the stake with
out paling one drop Of his proud blood H'


who almost rebelled at the law that woult
not let sixty years, with rheumatic limbs


stand in the ranks and march to battle agains


the traitors to his country! He, who neve


knew fear, how can he 90 home and tell he
that


o, painter. paint me that strong old man


agony if you can, and it will embody IN tina


one look, that one intense gaze over that let


ter and that lock of hair more of the wick


edness of this terrible rebellion, this fendis


war wased by slavery against liberty-wage


by barbarism against Christianity-than ha
been transferred to canvas since the record
of time began. DO You wonder l did nc
ask him to stand aside ?-FrdnceS d. Gag,