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THE DRUMMER-BOY OF THE EIGHTH MICHIGAN

INFANTRY.

SHERMAN'S FLANK MOVEMENTS.-General Sherman's riably, on every pay-day, he sent his money to his strategy in flanking the rebels out of their strong po- widowed mother. None of the vices of the camp sitions, puzzles the natives a good deal. A young wo-clung to him, and amid the profane and drunken and man said it was not fair to fight the Southern soldiers vulgar, he moved, without assoiling the whiteness of "on end." She then went on to say that the day be his young soul. His teacher and Captain guarded him fore General Bragg had formed “two streaks of fight” like a father; he shared his bed and board with Charin their door-yard with "walking soldiers," and Gen- lie, and the two loved one another with an affection so eral Wheeler formed “one streak of fight with critter unusual that it was everywhere the subject of comsoldiers ”—meaning cavalry-behind the house, but ment. that Joe Hooker had come up and flanked Bragg, and By and by we hear of the fearless little fellow, small made him fall back, which he did in such a hurry, beyond his years, on the battle-field with the surgeon, that he “upset dad's ash-hopper plant,” which cost where the grape and canister were falling like hail two dollars and fifty cents in Atlanta; and “ dad was around them, pressing forward to the front, during an a-goin' to sue Bragg for waste.. This a fair specimen engagement, with the hospital dag in his hand, to aid of the way these poor people think and talk. They in the care of the wounded. Only a peremptory order do not generally display half the intelligence the from a superior officer was able to turn him back to slaves do.

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. Nerer was he more serviceable than dur*Charles Howard Gardner was a school-boy thirteen ing a battle. At the terrible battle of James's Island, and a half years old, in the city of Flint, Michigan, in an assault on the fort, his beloved Captain, always when the war commenced. His father was connected foremost in the fight, had climbed to the parapet of with a military organization of long standing, and un- the fort, when a shot struck him, and he fell backder the first call for seventy-five thousand troops, im- ward, and was seen no more. Now was Charlie inmediately left for the defence of the national capital. deed bereaved—his teacher, captain, friend, father, Soon there came a second call for three hundred thou- lover, dead on the battle-field, and even the poor satsand more, when Charlie's teacher, S. C. Guild, a most isfaction denied his friends of burying his remains. exemplary young man, soon to enter the ministry, His letters after this event, are one long wail of sorjoined the army. Between Charlie and him there ex- row -- he could not be comforted—and yet, always isted a very ardent attachment, and Captain Guild se- thoughtful for others, he writes : “Oh! how I pity conded Charlie's earnest entreaties that he might go his poor mother ! 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 reinforce 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, The regiment was ordered to Port Royal, and on all campaigns, Charlie kept with the regiment, crosstheir way thither, Charlie met his father in Washing- ing the mountains with them to Knoxville, in Burn

As they were returning from the Navy-yard side's corps, on rations of three ears of corn per day, where they had been for their arms, he saw his father and then for weeks shut up in that city, besieged by a little way off, and forgetting military rule, he broke Longstreet's force, and subsisting on quarter-rations. from the ranks, and with child-like joy ran to his Yet not one word of complainit ever came from the father's arms. It was their last earthly meeting, as patriot boy, not one word of regret, only an earnest the November following Mr. Gardner died of typhoid desire to remain in the service till the end of the war. fever at Alexandria. Charlie's letters to his mother At last, there came a letter from the surgeon. Durafter this bereavement, written from Port Royal, are ing the siege of Knoxville, Charlie had been wounded exceedingly touching, and remarkably thoughtful for for the first time. A chance shot that passed through a boy not yet fourteen. “I am near broken-hearted,” the window of the house in which he was, struck him he writes: “I try to be cheerful, but it is of no use, on the shoulder, and entered the lung. “He has been my mind continually runs in the direction of home, a in a very dangerous condition," wrote the surgeon, fresh gush of tears comes to my eyes, and I have to “but he is now fast recovering. He is a universal weep. But, mother, if this is so hard for me, what pet, and is well cared for in the officers' quarters.” must it be for you? Don't take it too much to heart, The next tidings were more joyful. The regiment were for remember that you have me left, and I will do mys on their way to Detroit, on a thirty days' furlough, and best to help you. I shall send you all my money here would remain to recruit. Now the telegraph notified after, for I do not really need money here."

those interested that they were in Louisville—then in This promise he fulfilled to the letter. Always Indianapolis-in Michigan City—at last in Detroit. cheerful, he was a great favorite with the officers and With a happy heart the good mother telegraphed to men, for whom he never did a favor, but they would have her boy sent to Chicago as soon as possible, and compel him to receive some small compensation in re- then she watched the arrival of the trains. “He will turn. These small gains he carefully husbanded, and be here to-night-he will be here tomorrow”-she increased them by peddling papers and periodicals, said, and every summons to the door she was sure making enough for his little extra expenses, and inva- was her Charlie. Every thing was in readiness for the

ton.

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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.

DEAD-EN BIVOUAC, BY CAPTAIN GEORGE P. BURNHAM, U. 8. 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 limlys 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.

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.

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.

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,

" All is well !" the sentry uttered,

Far away upon the right; " All is well !" the centre muttered

Then the left. 'Twas dead of night Still the storm was fiercely raging;

Biting blasts came down the vale ;

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!

RELIEVING GUARD-March 4, 1864.

BY FRANK BREL HARTE,

And the elements were waging

Ruthless war-amid that gale.
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.
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! And never

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.
Ix CAMP, NEAR TIE RAPIDAN, Va., First Division, SECOND
CORPS, January, 1864.

Came the relief. "What, sentry ho !

How passed the night through thy long waking ?” Cold, cheerless, dark-as may befit

The hour before the dawn is breaking." “No sight? no sound ?” “No; nothing, save

The plover from the marshes calling;
And in yon western sky, about

An hour ago, a star was falling."
A star? There's nothing strange in that."

“No, nothing; but above the thicket Somehow it seemed to me that God

Somewhere had just relieved a picket !"

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THE REFUGEES.

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.

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

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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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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 rhyme

Some day poor Jack in bis grave must restAnd of all the rhymes of this cruel war

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

THE VETERAN VOLUNTEERS.

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.

BY H. O. 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 !

THE DOG OF THE REGIMENT.

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 !

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“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.

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 !

“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,

THE STOLEN STARS. At a dinner, at which were present Major-General Levis 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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And fine old Uncle Samuel

He took the flag from him,
And spread it on a long pine pole,

And prayed and sung a hymn-
A pious man was Uncle Sam

Back fifty years and more; The flag should fly till judgment-day,

So, by the Lord, he swore !
And well he kept that solemn oath;

He kept it well, and more:
The thirteen stars first on the flag

Soon grew to thirty-four ;
And every star bespoke a State,

Each State an empire won:
No brighter were the stars of night

Than those of Washington.

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Beneath that flag two brothers dwelt;

To both 'twas very dear; The name of one was Puritan,

The other Cavalier. “Go build ye towns," said Uncle Sam

Unto those brothers dear; “Build anywhere, for in the world

You've none but God to fear.'

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 bis soul, like Mars : “A million Northern boys I'll get

To bring me home my stars.”
And on his mare, stout Betsey Jane,

To Northside town he flew;
The dogs they barked, the bells did ring,

And countless bugles blew.
“My stolen stars !" cried Uncle Sam-

My stolen stars !" cried he. “ A million soldiers I must have

To bring them bome to me.” “Dry up your tears, good Uncle Sam ;

“ Dry up!” said Puritan.
“We'll bring you home your stolen stars,

Or perish every man!"
And at the words a million rose,

All ready for the fray ;
And columns formed, like rivers deep,

And Southward marched away.

“ I'll to the South,” said Cavalier,

“I'll to the South," said he ; “And I'll to the North,” said Puritan

“ The North's the land for me." Each took a flag, each left a

To good old Uncle Sam ; He kissed the boys, he kissed the flags,

And doleful sung a psalm.

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And in a go-cart Puritan

His worldly goods did lay; With wife, and gun, and dog, and axe,

He, singing, went his way. of buckskin was his Sunday suit,

His wife wore linsey-jeans ; And fat they grew, like porpoises,

On hoe-cake, pork, and beans.

But Cavalier a cockney was;

He talked French and Latin ; Every day he wore broadcloth,

While his wife wore satin. He went off in a painted ship

In glory he did go;
A thousand niggers up aloft,

A thousand down below.

And still old Uncle Samuel

Sits by his fireside near, Smokin' of his killikinick

And drinkin' lager beer; While there's a tremble in the earth,

A gleaming of the sky, And the rivers stop to listen

As the million marches by.

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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

BILL ARP ON CONFEDERATE CURRENCY.-The fol. lowing, 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 express my opinyun about the way my finanses have been managed by other people. I would hav writ some thing about it before, but I thought maybe Gurner Brown would think I was a leaning up to him, and he might insist on makin' me one of his side. Now Uni agin Joseph, and I'm agin all his messages, and cab

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