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, Two years had passed-two years that day Bright o'er his head the banner streamed, Just then a wail fell on the ear- Come home to me! Come home to me!" "What's that?" cried Tom, and clutched my arm "Why Tom," said I, "that's Margery Hall, When she should greet her gallant boy. And Christmas morning came; she drest She read: 'Killed by a rifle ball In charge on Wagner-Sergeant Hall.' "She fell and lay as she were dead, 6 She never smiles, she never weeps, O, it is pitiful to see How grandly patient she can be; Come home to me! Come home to me!" "Poor girl," said Tom, and shook his head; the steep: And then he smiled and said to me, It waves exultant on the crest, I saw him buried on the field!" As brother Tom rehearsed the tale 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, O, joy too great for life! one cry To rest! Her eyelids close; Her weary soul has found repose. Her gallant boy she'll greet no more, Till then from the parapet of Heaven, Come home to me! Come home to me!" N. Y. Graphic, "SHARING THANKSGIVING DINNER." Ah! yes, it was hard, and what made it harder, (Could whistle when hungry, if that was the rule), |