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SHERMAN'S FLANK MOVEMENTS.-General Sherman's strategy in flanking the rebels out of their strong positions, puzzles the natives a good deal. A young woman said it was not fair to fight the Southern soldiers "on end." She then went on to say that the day before General Bragg had formed "two streaks of fight" in their door-yard with "walking soldiers," and General Wheeler formed "one streak of fight with critter soldiers"—meaning cavalry-behind the house, but that Joe Hooker had come up and flanked Bragg, and made him fall back, which he did in such a hurry, that he "upset dad's ash-hopper plant," which cost two dollars and fifty cents in Atlanta; and "dad was a-goin' to sue Bragg for waste.” This a fair specimen of the way these poor people think and talk. They do not generally display half the intelligence the slaves do.

THE DRUMMER-BOY OF THE EIGHTH MICHIGAN
INFANTRY.

riably, on every pay-day, he sent his money to his widowed mother. None of the vices of the camp clung to him, and amid the profane and drunken and vulgar, he moved, without assoiling the whiteness of his young soul. His teacher and Captain guarded him like a father; he shared his bed and board with Charlie, and the two loved one another with an affection so unusual that it was everywhere the subject of comment.

By and by we hear of the fearless little fellow, small beyond his years, on the battle-field with the surgeon, where the grape and canister were falling like hail around them, pressing forward to the front, during an engagement, with the hospital flag in his hand, to aid in the care of the wounded. Only a peremptory order from a superior officer was able to turn him back to the rear, and there, when the wounded were brought in, he worked all night, and the next day, carrying water and bandages and lint, and lighting up the sorrowfulness of the hour by his boyish but unfailing kindness. Never was he more serviceable than during a battle. At the terrible battle of James's Island, in an assault on the fort, his beloved Captain, always foremost in the fight, had climbed to the parapet of the fort, when a shot struck him, and he fell backward, and was seen no more. Now was Charlie indeed bereaved-his teacher, captain, friend, father, lover, dead on the battle-field, and even the poor satisfaction denied his friends of burying his remains. His letters after this event, are one long wail of sorrow he could not be comforted-and yet, always thoughtful for others, he writes: "Oh! how I pity his poor mother!"

Charles Howard Gardner was a school-boy thirteen and a half years old, in the city of Flint, Michigan, when the war commenced. His father was connected with a military organization of long standing, and under the first call for seventy-five thousand troops, immediately left for the defence of the national capital. Soon there came a second call for three hundred thousand more, when Charlie's teacher, S. C. Guild, a most exemplary young man, soon to enter the ministry, joined the army. Between Charlie and him there existed a very ardent attachment, and Captain Guild seconded Charlie's earnest entreaties that he might go with him as a drummer. He had been famous from Months passed, and the Eighth Michigan was orderhis babyhood for his musical ability, and had acquired to Vicksburgh to reënforce Grant, who had beed a good deal of merited notoriety for his skilful leaguered that doomed city. Battle after battle enhandling of the drumsticks. "If I can go to the war sued-nineteen of them--in all of which Charlie more with my drum, and thus take the place of a man who or less participated, often escaping death as by a mircan handle a musket," was Charlie's persistent plea, acle. Something of the fierce life led by this regiment "I think it is my duty to go, especially as you, mother, may be inferred from the fact that one thousand six do not greatly need me at home." So, reluctantly, the hundred and fifty-three men have enlisted in it since poor mother, who had surrendered her husband, con- it first took the field; of these, only four hundred sursented that her boy should join the Eighth Michigan vive to-day, all but eight of whom have just reënlisted. infantry. Through all battles, all marches, all reconnoissances, all campaigns, Charlie kept with the regiment, crossing the mountains with them to Knoxville, in Burnside's corps, on rations of three ears of corn per day, and then for weeks shut up in that city, besieged by Longstreet's force, and subsisting on quarter-rations. Yet not one word of complaint ever came from the patriot boy, not one word of regret, only an earnest desire to remain in the service till the end of the war.

ton.

The regiment was ordered to Port Royal, and on their way thither, Charlie met his father in WashingAs they were returning from the Navy-yard where they had been for their arms, he saw his father a little way off, and forgetting military rule, he broke from the ranks, and with child-like joy ran to his father's arms. It was their last earthly meeting, as the November following Mr. Gardner died of typhoid fever at Alexandria. Charlie's letters to his mother after this bereavement, written from Port Royal, are exceedingly touching, and remarkably thoughtful for a boy not yet fourteen. "I am near broken-hearted," he writes: "I try to be cheerful, but it is of no use, my mind continually runs in the direction of home, a fresh gush of tears comes to my eyes, and I have to weep. But, mother, if this is so hard for me, what must it be for you? Don't take it too much to heart, for remember that you have me left, and I will do my best to help you. I shall send you all my money hereafter, for I do not really need money here."

This promise he fulfilled to the letter. Always cheerful, he was a great favorite with the officers and men, for whom he never did a favor, but they would compel him to receive some small compensation in return. These small gains he carefully husbanded, and increased them by peddling papers and periodicals, making enough for his little extra expenses, and inva

At last, there came a letter from the surgeon. During the siege of Knoxville, Charlie had been wounded for the first time. A chance shot that passed through the window of the house in which he was, struck him on the shoulder, and entered the lung. "He has been in a very dangerous condition," wrote the surgeon, "but he is now fast recovering. He is a universal pet, and is well cared for in the officers' quarters." The next tidings were more joyful. The regiment were on their way to Detroit, on a thirty days' furlough, and would remain to recruit. Now the telegraph notified those interested that they were in Louisville-then in Indianapolis-in Michigan City-at last in Detroit.

With a happy heart the good mother telegraphed to have her boy sent to Chicago as soon as possible, and then she watched the arrival of the trains. "He will be here to-night-he will be here to-morrow "-she said, and every summons to the door she was sure was her Charlie. Every thing was in readiness for the

darling-his room-his clothes-the supper-table set with the luxuries he loved-and there sat mother, sister, and brother, waiting for him. A knock at the door-all start-all rush-'tis Charlie! No, on a telegram. God help the poor broken hearts, as they read it" The regiment has arrived, but Charlie is dead!" And this was all.

OUR COUNTRY'S CAUSE.

BY MRS. M. J. M. SWEAT.

War's cruel ploughshare cleaves the land,
In furrows wide and deep;
Each furrow is a hallowed grave,
Where our loved heroes sleep.
But costly seed we're planting now,
In weariness and pain,

Shall, at the harvest-time, bring forth
Fair fields of priceless grain.

Our hearts are saddened by the sight
Of sick and wounded men ;
It seems as if God's summer air

Could ne'er be pure again.
But side by side with war's dark sins
Man's noblest virtues shine,

And woman's sweet compassion beams
With lustre half divine.

Sweet mother earth, with tender care,
Covers her wounds with flowers,
And we would learn her loving art
For these deep wounds of ours.
For though our tears fall sadly now,
They, like the summer rain,
May bring rich blessings for the time
When sunshine comes again.

Only for thee, dear native land,

Could we thus bear our woe; Only for thee, see, day by day,

Our brave men thus laid low. But though our griefs must inly bleed Through many a coming year,

Each sorrow makes our country's cause To patriot hearts more dear.

OUR FLAG IN '64.

BY D. BETHUNE DUFFIELD.

Fling, fling our banner out,
With loyal song and shout,
O'er every home and hill,
By each deep valley's mill;
And let its heaven-lit beam
Round every hearthstone gleam,
And fill the passing hour-
This pregnant, fateful hour-

With all its stirring voices
And the thunder of its power.

The foe is striking hard;
But in the castle-yard
Uprise fresh traitor bands
To snatch from out our hands,
From fortress and from sea,
This banner of the free,

To give it coward flight,
That anarchy's dark night,

With all its muttering thunders, May swallow up its light.

Ay! when our soldiers brave,
On bloody field and wave,
Sprang forth with deadly stroke
Through battle's blazing smoke
Our standard to uphold,
And save its every fold,
These home-born traitors cry,
"God grant no victory!"

Though scores of gallant heroes Round the old flag bravely die.

Rise, then, each loyal man,
Your home horizon scan,
And plant the nation's flag
On hill-side and on crag;
And let your swelling soul
In earnest tones outroll
That brave resolve of old,
When our fathers, true and bold,
Swore a fealty to the flag
Which never once grew cold.

The flag, the flag bends low,
For whirlwinds round it blow,
And wild, chaotic night
Is veiling it from sight.
So let us every one,
While yet the winds rage on,
Cling round the straining mast
And hold the banner fast,

Till stormy treason's rage
Be safely overpast.

DEAD-EN BIVOUAC.

BY CAPTAIN GEORGE P. BURNHAM, U. S. a.

During the advance of the army of the Potomac south of the Rapidan, on those very cold nights the troops and guards suffered terribly. Several had limbs frost-bitten, and one man, in the Second corps, froze to death while on picket duty.-Telegraph despatch in December to New-York papers.

By the margin of the river,

'Midst the plunging snow and sleet,
On the picket-post they shiver,
As they pace their lonely beat!
Of the loved ones (calmly sleeping
Safe from cold, alarm, or fight)
They are thinking, whilst they're keeping
"Watch-in-watch" this bitter night.

Near the Rapid Ann we rested

After weeks and months of toil(Faith and valor meanwhile tested!) On Virginia's "sacred" soil. By the lonely weird camp-fire,

Hard upon the foeman's track, 'Mid the gloom and dampness dire We lay down-en bivouac.

"All is well!" the sentry uttered,

Far away upon the right; "All is well!" the centre mutteredThen the left. 'Twas dead of night. Still the storm was fiercely raging; Biting blasts came down the vale;

And the elements were waging Ruthless war-amid that gale.

O brother! black thy skin,
But white the pearl within!
Man, who to lift thy race
Worthy, thrice worthy art,
Clasps thee, in warm embrace
A nation's heart!

But the sentinels kept pacing-
Pacing-up and down their track;
While the storm-king still kept tracing
Snowy ridges-front and back.
Ah! that air was deathly frigid,
And the sleet came tempest-tost!
But the orders out were rigid-
"Not a man must quit his post."

For, in front, (we'd had the warning,)
Massed, in force, the rebels lay,
Yet we looked for-prayed for morning,
Though 't should prove our final day!
Hours passed.
One watcher, weary-
Faltered, halted, breathed a moan;
Then, amidst the darkness dreary,

Failed-and sank to earth, alone.

And never

When the gray light broke, at dawning,
Calm, beneath a friendly tree-
Blanched, and still, lay Harry Corning!
Sleeping on his post-was he?
Surely, no! A soldier braver
Never met or charged the foe.
Such true hearts are few!
Could he fail in duty so.
"Forward!" came the word. We lifted
Quickly up his stiffened form,
Round it wreaths of snow had drifted,
But his heart no more was warm.
He had frozen, dead-on picket.
Dreadful fate was this, alack!
And we laid him 'neath the thicket,
Where he died- en bivouac.

IN CAMP, NEAR THE RAPIDAN, VA., FIRST DIVISION, SECOND CORPS, January, 1864.

THE AFRICAN COLOR-SERGEANT.

Glares the volcano breath,
Breaks the red sea of death,
From Wagner's yawning hold,
On the besiegers bold.

Twice vain the wild attack,
Inch by inch, sadly, slow,
Fights the torn remnant back,
Face to the foe.

Yet free the colors wave,
Borne by yon Afric brave,
In the fierce storm wind higher;
But, ah! one flashing fire:

He sinks the banner falls
From the faint, mangled limb,
And droop to mocking walls
Those star-folds dim.

Stay, stay, the taunting laugh!
See! now he lifts the staff,
Clenched in his close-set teeth,
Crawls from dead heaps beneath,
Crowned with his starry robe,
Till he the ranks has found:
"Comrades, the dear old flag
Ne'er touched the ground."

O dead so pure, so grand,
Sydney might clasp thy hand!

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By the mountain springs of the Cumberland,
Under the leafless trees,

With faces lit by the midnight brand,
And hand close clasped in trembling hand,
Sat the hundred refugees.

A woman, one with untimely frost
Creeping along her hair;

And a boy whose sunny locks had lost
Small store of the gold of childhood, tossed
By a mother's kisses there.

The clouds hung thick on the mountain's brow,
And the stars were veiled in gloom,
And the gorges around were white with snow,
But below was the prowling, cruel foe,
And the light of a burning home.

"Mother, the wind is cold to-night,"
Said the boy in childhood's tone;
"But oh! I hope in the morning's light,
That the Union lines will come in sight,
And the snow will soon be gone.

"I am very weary, mother dear,

With the long, long walk to-day, But the enemy cannot find us here, And I shall slumber without a fear Till the night has passed away.

"So tell me now, ere I sleep once more,
The message that father gave

To his comrades for you and me before
The glorious fight on the river's shore
That made a soldier's grave."

Then the mother told, with tearless eye,
The solemn words again:

"Tell her I shall see her standing by,
When the calm comes on of the time to die
And the wounds have lost their pain.
"And teach my boy for ever to hold
In his heart all things above-

The wealth of all earth's unbounded gold,
Or life with its sweet, sad joys untold-
The worth of a patriot's love."

As his blood the message quicker stirred
The boy's bright arteries through—

"I well remember every word,"

He said; "and the angels, who must have heard, They will remember too."

Then clasped as a mother clasps who stands

Alone between love and death, Unfelt where the spectral chilly hands That softly tighten the soothing bands

Over the failing breath.

Mother and child, as the fire burned low,

Slept on the earth's cold breast;

The night passed by, and the morning slow Broke the veil of cloud o'er the stainless snow, Bnt never their perfect rest.

THE DOG OF THE REGIMENT.

"If I were a poet, like you, my friend,"

Said a bronzed old sergeant, speaking to me,
"I would make a rhyme of this mastiff here;
For a right good Union dog is he.
Although he was born on 'secesh' soil,

And his master fought in the rebel ranks.
If you'll do it, I'll tell you his history,

And give you in pay, why-a soldier's thanks.

"Well, the way we came across him was this:

We were on the march, and 'twas getting late When we reached a farm-house, deserted by all Save this mastiff here, who stood at the gate. Thin and gaunt as a wolf was he,

And a piteous whine he gave 'twixt the bars; But, bless you! if he didn't jump for joy

When he saw our flag with the Stripes and Stars.

"Next day, when we started again on the march, With us went Jack, without word or call; Stopping for rest at the order to 'halt,'

And taking his rations along with us all, Never straggling, but keeping his place in line, Far to the right, and close beside me; And I don't care where the other is found, There never was better drilled dog than he.

"He always went with us into the fight,

And the thicker the bullets fell around,
And the louder the rattling musketry rolled,
Louder and fiercer his bark would sound;
And once when wounded, and left for dead,
After a bloody and desperate fight,
Poor Jack, as faithful as friend can be,
Lay by my side on the field all night.

"And so when our regiment home returned,

We brought him along with us, as you see; And Jack and I being much attached,

The boys seemed to think he belonged to me. And here he has lived with me ever since;

Right pleased with his quarters, too, he seems. There are no more battles for brave old Jack, And no more marches except in dreams. "But the best of all times for the old dog is

When the thunder mutters along the sky,

Then he wakes the echoes around with his bark,
Thinking the enemy surely is nigh.

Now I've told you his history, write him a thyme-
Some day poor Jack in his grave must rest-
And of all the rhymes of this cruel war

Which your brain has made, let his be the best."

THE VETERAN VOLUNTEERS.

BY H. C. BALLARD.

Our hope and faith are cheered anew;
Our hearts are strong once more.
The brave and war-worn men in blue,
Tried in the conflict's roar,
Now rally at the Nation's call
With purpose true and brave,
The dear old banner shall not fall
Their comrades died to save!

Bold heroes of the mighty North!

No doubts our hearts can chill; Ye bear the hopes of millions forth, And execute their will; No terrors check, no dangers daunt The men of many scars, Who go o'er all the land to plant The banner of the stars!

The East and West, the border lands,
Join in one loyal song,

With willing hearts and ready hands
They bear the flag along;

They see the mounds where comrade braves
Sleep by each river's side,

No flag shall float above their graves
Save that for which they died!

Behold the ranks of iron men,

With faces toward the foe,
Press boldly to the front again
Where only heroes go;

And brave and true, come woe or weal,
They dare the fearful strife,
For on their gleaming lines of steel
They bear the Union's life!

They leave their fireside joys again
For war's destroying blast,
To tread the bloody battle plain,

Where they may sleep at last;
Yet honor's hand will wreathe with bays
Their brows in coming years;
And unborn millions bless and praise
Our veteran volunteers!

THE STOLEN STARS.

Ar a dinner, at which were present Major-General Lewis Wallace, Thomas Buchanan Read, and James E. Murdock, a conversation sprang up respecting ballads for soldiers. The General maintained that hardly one had been written suited for the camp. It was agreed that each of them should write one. The following is that of General Wallace:

When good old Father Washington
Was just about to die,

He called our Uncle Samuel

Unto his bedside nigh:
"This flag I give you, Sammy dear,”
Said Washington, said he;
"Where'er it floats, on land or wave,
My children shall be free."

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The towns were built, and I've heard said,

Their likes were never seen;

They filled the North, they filled the South,
They filled the land between.
"The Lord be praised!" said Puritan ;
"Bully!" said Cavalier;
"There's room and town-lots in the West,
If there isn't any here."

Out to the West they journeyed then,
And in a quarrel got;

One said 'twas his, he knew it was;
The other said 'twas not.
One drew a knife, a pistol t'other,

And dreadfully they swore:
From Northern Lake to Southern Gulf
Wild rang the wordy roar.

VOL. VIII.-POETRY 3

And all the time good Uncle Sam Sat by his fireside near,

Smokin' of his kinnikinick,

And drinkin' lager beer.

He laughed and quaffed, and quaffed and laughed,

Nor thought it worth his while,
Until the storm in fury burst
On Sumter's sea-girt isle.

O'er the waves to the smoking front,
When came the dewy dawn,
To see the flag, he looked-and lo!
Eleven stars were gone!

"My pretty, pretty stars!" he cried,
And down did roll a tear.
"I've got your stars, Old Fogy Sam;
"Ha, ha!" laughed Cavalier.

"I've got your stars in my watch-fob;
Come take them if you dare!"
And Uncle Sam he turned away,
Too full of wrath to swear.
"Let thunder all the drums!" he cried,
While swelled his soul, like Mars:
"A million Northern boys I'll get

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BILL ARP ON CONFEDERATE CURRENCY.-The following, published in a rebel paper, shows the manner in which the depreciated confederate currency operated on the rebels themselves:

MR. EDITUR, SUR: At this time I ain't as much in favor of soft money as I was. I don't want to raise no rumpus nor hurt nobody's feelings, but somehow I'm injuced from pekuliar sirkumstances to expres my opinyun about the way my finanses have been managed by other people. I would hav writ something about it before, but I thought maybe Guvner Brown would think I was a leaning up to him, and he might insist on makin' me one of his side. Now I'm agin Joseph, and I'm agin all his messages, and cab

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