"The Union,"--that was well enough way up to '66;
But this "Re-Union," maybe now it's mixed with politics?
No? Well, you understand it best; but then, you see, my lad, I'm deacon now, and some might think that the example's bad.
And week from next is Conference. . . . You said the twelfth of May?
Why, that's the day we broke their line at Spottsylvan-i-a!
Hot work; eh, Colonel, wasn't it? Ye mind that narrow front:
They called it the "Death-Angle"! Well, well, my lad, we won't Fight that old battle over now: I only meant to say I really can't engage to come upon the twelfth of May.
How's Thompson? What! will he be there? Well, now I want to know!
The first man in the rebel works! they called him "Swearing Joe."
A wild young fellow, sir, I fear the rascal was; but then--Well, short of heaven, there wa'n't a place he dursn't lead his men.
And Dick, you say, is coming too. And Billy? ah! it's true We buried him at Gettysburg: I mind the spot; do you?
A little field below the hill,--it must be green this May;
Perhaps that's why the fields about bring him to me to-day.
Well, well, excuse me, Colonel! but there are some things that drop The tail-board out one's feelings; and the only way's to stop.
So they want to see the old man; ah, the rascals! do they, eh?
Well, I've business down in Boston about the twelfth of May.
CALIFORNIA'S GREETING TO SEWARD
(1869)
We know him well: no need of praise Or bonfire from the windy hill To light to softer paths and ways The world-worn man we honor still.
No need to quote the truths he spoke That burned through years of war and shame, While History carves with surer stroke Across our map his noonday fame.
No need to bid him show the scars Of blows dealt by the Scaean gate, Who lived to pass its shattered bars, And see the foe capitulate:
Who lived to turn his slower feet Toward the western setting sun, To see his harvest all complete, His dream fulfilled, his duty done, The one flag streaming from the pole, The one faith borne from sea to sea:
For such a triumph, and such goal, Poor must our human greeting be.
Ah! rather that the conscious land In simpler ways salute the Man,--The tall pines bowing where they stand, The bared head of El Capitan!
The tumult of the waterfalls, Pohono's kerchief in the breeze, The waving from the rocky walls, The stir and rustle of the trees;
Till, lapped in sunset skies of hope, In sunset lands by sunset seas, The Young World's Premier treads the slope Of sunset years in calm and peace.
THE AGED STRANGER
AN INCIDENT OF THE WAR
"I was with Grant"--the stranger said;
Said the farmer, "Say no more, But rest thee here at my cottage porch, For thy feet are weary and sore."
"I was with Grant"--the stranger said;
Said the farmer, "Nay, no more,--I prithee sit at my frugal board, And eat of my humble store.
"How fares my boy,--my soldier boy, Of the old Ninth Army Corps?
I warrant he bore him gallantly In the smoke and the battle's roar!"
"I know him not," said the aged man, "And, as I remarked before, I was with Grant"-- "Nay, nay, I know,"
Said the farmer, "say no more:
"He fell in battle,--I see, alas!
Thou'dst smooth these tidings o'er,--Nay, speak the truth, whatever it be, Though it rend my bosom's core.
"How fell he? With his face to the foe, Upholding the flag he bore?
Oh, say not that my boy disgraced The uniform that he wore!"
"I cannot tell," said the aged man, "And should have remarked before.
That I was with Grant,--in Illinois,--Some three years before the war."
Then the farmer spake him never a word, But beat with his fist full sore That aged man who had worked for Grant Some three years before the war.
THE IDYL OF BATTLE HOLLOW
(WAR OF THE REBELLION, 1884)
No, I won't,--thar, now, so! And it ain't nothin',--no!
And thar's nary to tell that you folks yer don't know;
And it's "Belle, tell us, do!" and it's "Belle, is it true?"
And "Wot's this yer yarn of the Major and you?"
Till I'm sick of it all,--so I am, but I s'pose Thet is nothin' to you. . . . Well, then, listen! yer goes!
It was after the fight, and around us all night Thar was poppin' and shootin' a powerful sight;
And the niggers had fled, and Aunt Chlo was abed, And Pinky and Milly were hid in the shed:
And I ran out at daybreak, and nothin' was nigh But the growlin' of cannon low down in the sky.
And I saw not a thing, as I ran to the spring, But a splintered fence rail and a broken-down swing, And a bird said "Kerchee!" as it sat on a tree, As if it was lonesome, and glad to see me;
And I filled up my pail and was risin' to go, When up comes the Major a-canterin' slow.
When he saw me he drew in his reins, and then threw On the gate-post his bridle, and--what does he do But come down where I sat; and he lifted his hat, And he says--well, thar ain't any need to tell THAT;
'Twas some foolishness, sure, but it 'mounted to this, Thet he asked for a drink, and he wanted--a kiss.
Then I said (I was mad), "For the water, my lad, You're too big and must stoop; for a kiss, it's as bad,--You ain't near big enough." And I turned in a huff, When that Major he laid his white hand on my cuff, And he says, "You're a trump! Take my pistol, don't fear!
But shoot the next man that insults you, my dear."
Then he stooped to the pool, very quiet and cool, Leavin' me with that pistol stuck there like a fool, When thar flashed on my sight a quick glimmer of light From the top of the little stone fence on the right, And I knew 'twas a rifle, and back of it all Rose the face of that bushwhacker, Cherokee Hall!
Then I felt in my dread that the moment the head Of the Major was lifted, the Major was dead;
And I stood still and white, but Lord! gals, in spite Of my care, that derned pistol went off in my fright!
Went off--true as gospil!--and, strangest of all, It actooally injured that Cherokee Hall!
Thet's all--now, go 'long! Yes, some folks thinks it's wrong, And thar's some wants to know to what side I belong;
But I says, "Served him right!" and I go, all my might, In love or in war, for a fair stand-up fight;
And as for the Major--sho! gals, don't you know Thet--Lord! thar's his step in the garden below.
CALDWELL OF SPRINGFIELD
(NEW JERSEY, 1780)
