She believes that the late struggle between the States was war and not rebellion, revolution and not conspiracy, and that her convictions were as honest as yours. She has nothing to take back. In my native town of Athens is a monument that crowns its central hills--a plain, white shaft. Deep cut into its shining side is a name dear to me above the names of men, that of a brave and simple man, who died in brave and simple faith. Not for all the glories of New England, from Plymouth Rock all the way down, would I exchange the heritage he left me in his soldier's death. To the foot of that shaft I shail send my children's children to reverence him who ennobled their names with his heroic blood. But, sir, speaking from the shadow of that memory, which I honor as I do nothing else on earth, I say that the cause in which he suffered, and for which he gave his life, was adjudged by higher and fuller wisdom than his or mine. And I am glad that the omniscient God held the balance of battle in His Almighty hand; that human slavery was swept from the American soil, and the American union saved from the wreck of war.

This message, Mr. President, comes to you from consecrated ground. The very soil of the State of Georgia is as sacred as a battle ground of the Republic, and hallowed to you by the blood of your brothers, who died for your victory, and hallowed to us by the blood of those, who died hopeless, but undaunted in defeat-sacred soil to all of us-rich with memories that make us purer and stronger and better. Speaking, an eloquent witness in its white peace and prosperity to the indissoluble union of the American States and the imperishable brotherhood of the American people.

Now what answer has New England to this message? Will she permit the prejudice of war to remain in the hearts of the conquerors when it has died in the hearts of the conquered? Will she transmit this prejudice to the next generation that in their

hearts which never felt the generous ardor of conflict it may perpetuate itself? Will she withhold, save in strained courtesy, the hand which straight from his soldier's heart Grant offered to Lee at Appomattox? Will she make the vision of a restored and happy people, which gathered about the couch of your dying captain, filling his heart with grace, touching his lips with praise and glorifying his path to the grave-will she make this vision, on which the last sigh of his expiring soul breathed a benediction, a delusion and a cheat? If she does, the South must accept with dignity its refusal. If she does not, then standing, heart to heart and clasping hands, we will remain citizens of the same country; members of the same government, all united now and united forever.-H. W. Grady.

"MARGERY."

(Prize Recitation, June, 1887. N. Mo. State Normal.)

I met my brother at the train

And kissed him welcome home again,
O, I was proud his face to scan—
Home from the dreadful Rapidan!

Two years had passed-two years that day
Since he had led his men away;

Bright o'er his head the banner streamed,
Bright on his sword the sunlight gleamed.
We saw them, faintly through our tears,
We heard them send back answering cheers;
And now, in flush of joy and pride,
Once more I had him at my side.
Across the green we strolled along,
And all the air seemed full of song,
As happy hundreds flocked about
Rejoicing in the muster out.

Just then a wail fell on the ear-
A wail it thrilled the soul to hear-

Come home to me! Come home to me!"

"What's that?" cried Tom, and clutched my arm
As if to hold me back from harm-
"What is that dreadful wailing, Kate?
Wretched-heart-broken-desolate!"

"Why Tom," said I, "that's Margery Hall,
We all have learned her hopeless call,
She married Charley just the day
Before his regiment marched away;
At Christmas he would come again,
He said, as fled the flying train,
She waited trembling for the hour
And prayed that God would give her power
To bear the burden of her joy

When she should greet her gallant boy.
How sluggishly the dull months passed!
But all the days crept by at last

And Christmas morning came; she drest
In all her brightest things and best,
And ran to see the train come in.
Oh! Here upon this bulletin

She read:

'Killed by a rifle ball

In charge on Wagner-Sergeant Hall.'

"She fell and lay as she were dead,
And then it was her reason fled;
On this one point-on others sane-
She looks for Charley home again.
She watches near this bulletin
Each time the trains come in.

6

She never smiles, she never weeps,
But still her tearless vigil keeps,
And always says; He's on the way,
And he is due at home-to-day!'
And gazes at the morning sun
Counting her fingers, one by one.

O, it is pitiful to see

How grandly patient she can be;
She preens herself with ribbons rare
And braids fresh roses in her hair,
Then with serene and tranquil brow
Sings, Tom, just as you hear her now:
Charley Charley!
!

Come home to me! Come home to me!"

"Poor girl," said Tom, and shook his head;
"Poor girl-for Sergeant Hall is dead.
I saw him on that fearful night;
He was the foremost in the fight
The Colonel called for men to leap
And storm Fort Wagner up

the steep:
One stepped out first, alert and tall,
And grasped the colors-Sergeant Hall.
As he was waiting there, he set
Above the flag a silk rosette,

And then he smiled and said to me,
For love, home and Margery!'
They faced the storm of shot and shell
And sprang into that blazing hell—
Forward! I seem to see them yet;
The flag is on the parapet,

It waves exultant on the crest,
Falls inward!-God knows the rest!
Poor fellow --where the squadron wheeled,

I saw him buried on the field!"

As brother Tom rehearsed the tale
I marked beyond him, wan and pale,
Poor Margery bending close to hear,
And then she shouted, loud and clear:
"Charley! Charley!

Come home to me!

Come home to me!"

"I saw a similar name to-day,"

Said Tom, "There is a man, they say, Whose name is Hall, and went from here

Has been in Andersonville a year;

Is now escaped, and on his way

A shout! A stalwart man,

Haggard and grim, and brown with tan,
Came bursting through the startled crowd
And swung his arms, and cried aloud;
"Stand back! I hear her sweet voice call!
Where's Margery? I am Sergeant Hall!"

O, joy too great for life! one cry
She uttered, piercing, wild and high,
Then all unconscious, dropped to rest,
Pallid and pulseless on his breast.
To rest!

To rest!

Her eyelids close;

Her weary soul has found repose.
How calm her face! How peaceful there
The roses sleep within her hair!
Her weary waiting all is o'er,

Her gallant boy she'll greet no more,
Till there upon that brighter shore,
Again he'll clasp her-heart to heart,
Rejoicing in the muster out.

Till then from the parapet of Heaven,
She'll call unto him, morn and eve:
"Charley! Charley!

Come home to me! Come home to me!"

N. Y. Graphic,

"SHARING THANKSGIVING DINNER."

Ah! yes, it was hard, and what made it harder,
Was poor Granny's sickness. A destitute larder-
Thanksgiving Day here and no prospect ahead
Of a Thanksgiving feast-what wonder that Ned,
Who'd learned a few things in Dame Poverty's
school

(Could whistle when hungry, if that was the rule),