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WHAT AILS THE LITTLE FELLOW?

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"Your son has only gone a little before you,' I venture to say; only a hand's breadth of time between you now.'

"Yes,' adds the poor old father; and he gave his life for a good cause a cause worthy of it if he had been a thousand times dearer to me than he was.' "And your boy's mother-how does she bear this grief?'

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"The tears rain down his cheeks now. "It will kill her; she is very feeble.'

"What shall assuage the sorrow of these aged parents, bereft of the son of their old age by the cruel war that slavery has invoked? Sympathy and comfort are proffered the poor father, and after a little the sorrowing man turns again to his desolate home. "A childish figure drags itself into the room, shuffles heavily along, drops into a chair, and offers a letter. What ails the little fellow, whose face is bright and beautiful, and yet is shaded by sadness? open the letter and read. He is a messenger-boy from Admiral Porter's gunboats, who is sent North with the request that the child be properly cared for. Not thirteen years old, and yet he has been in many battles, and has run the gauntlet of the Vicksburg batteries, which for ten miles belched forth red-hot and steel-pointed shot and shell, in fruitless efforts to sink the invulnerable ironclads. Fever, too much medicine, neglect, and exposure, have done their worst for the little fellow, who has come North, homeless and friendless, with the right side paralyzed. He is taken to the exquisite tenderness of the 'Soldiers' Home,' and for the present is consigned to the motherly care of the good ladies who preside there.

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AH! THAT WHITE, ANXIOUS FACE!

"Who next? A bevy of nurses enter with carpetbags, shawls, and bundles. A telegram from the Commission has summoned them, for the hospitals at Memphis need them, and straightway they have girded themselves to the work. One is a widow, whose husband fell at Shiloh ; another is the wife of a lieutenant at Vicksburg; a third lost her brother at Chancellorsville; a fourth has no family ties, and there is no one to miss her while absent, or to mourn her if she never returns. They receive their instructions, commissions, and transportation, and hurry onward. God guide you, brave, noble women!

"Ah! that white, anxious face, whiter than ever, is again framed in the doorway. Is there no possible escape from it? One, two, three, four days she has haunted these rooms, waiting the answer to the telegram despatched to Gettysburg, where her son was wounded ten days ago. The answer to the telegram is this moment in my pocket how shall I repeat its stern message to the white-faced, sorrow-stricken mother? I involuntarily leave my desk, and bustle about, as if in search of something, trying to think how to break the news. I am spared the effort, for the morning papers have announced her bereavement, and she has only come to secure the help of the Commission in obtaining possession of her dead. There are no tears, no words of grief; only a still agony, a repressed anguish, which it is painful to witness. Mr. Freeman accompanies her to the railroad officials, where his pleading story wins the charity of a free pass for the poor woman to the 'military line.' There she must win her way, aided by the letters of endorsement and recommendation we give her. Bowing under her great sorrow,

THE DAY IS CROWDED WITH WORK.

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she goes forth on her sacred pilgrimage. Alas! how many thousand mothers have been bereft at Vicksburg and Gettysburg, refusing to be comforted, because their children are not!

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"Soldiers from the city hospitals visit us, to beg a shirt, a pair of slippers, a comb, or a well-filled pincushion, something interesting to read,' or 'paper, envelopes, and stamps,' to answer letters from wives, mothers, and sweethearts. They tarry to talk over their trials, sufferings, and privations, and their anxiety to get well and join their regiments, which is better than being cooped up in a hospital, even when it is a good one.' They are praised heartily, petted in motherly fashion as if they were children, which most sick men become, urged to come again, and sent back altogether lighter-hearted than when they

came.

"And so the day wears away. More loaded drays drive to the door with barrels of crackers, ale, pickles, sauer-kraut, and potatoes, with boxes of shirts, drawers, condensed milk and beef, with bales of cotton and flannel for the sewing-room, all of which are speedily disposed of, to make room for the arrivals of the morrow. Men and women come and go-to visit, to make inquiries, to ask favors, to offer services, to criticise and find fault, to bring news from the hospitals at Vicksburg, Memphis, Murfreesboro' and Nashville, to make inquiries for missing men through the Hospital Directory' of the Commission, to make donations of money, always needed, to retail their sorrows, and sometimes to idle away an hour in the midst of the hurrying, writing, copying, mailing, packing and shipping of this busy place.

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A SUBURB OF HEAVEN.

"The sun declines westward, its fervent heat is abating, and the hands of the clock point to the hour of six, and sometimes to seven. Wearied in body, exhausted mentally, and saturated with the passing streams of others' sorrows, I select the letters which must be answered by to-morrow morning's mail, replies to which have been delayed by the interruptions of the day, and again hail the street-car, which takes me to my home. Its pleasant order and quiet, its welcome rest, its cheerful companionship, its gayety, which comes from the prattle and merriment of children, who have a thousand adventures to narrate,—all seem strange and unnatural after the experiences of the day. It is as if I had left the world for a time, to refresh myself in a suburb of heaven. And only by a mental effort do I shut out the scenes I have left, and drop back for a time into my normal life the life of a wife, mother, and housekeeper. I try to forget the narratives of gunshot wounds, sabre strokes, battle and death, that have rained on me all day. This hour with my husband and children shall not be saddened by sketches of the suffering men and women who have defiled before my vision during the hours of daylight. There is a bright side even to these dark pictures; and there comes to me like a tonic the grand solace of the poet:

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"Above, or underneath, What matters, brothers, if we keep our post

At truth's and duty's side! As sword to sheath,

Dust turns to grave

- but souls find place in Heaven!'"

CHAPTER VI.

A CAMPAIGN PLANNED BY A WOMAN-DESPERATE BATTLES -TERRIBLE SCENES ON THE BATTLE-FIELD-TERRIFIC FIGHTING AND APPALLING SUFFERING-THE AGONIES OF WAR.

General McClellan supersedes General Scott-Missouri becomes the Field of Battle-General Grant wins a Victory at Belmont-Fleet of "Ironclads" for Service on Southern Rivers - The "Tennessee Campaign" planned by Anna Ella Carroll, of Maryland - Plan adopted by President Lincoln and Secretary Stanton-Carried out by General Grant - The "Court of Claims," in 1885, decides in her Favor-Fort Henry on the Tennessee captured by Gunboats-They fail to take Fort Donelson on the Cumberland - General Grant attacks by Land The Fort surrenders, after three Days' Fighting-"Unconditional Surrender Grant!"Joy of the Northwest - Frightful Suffering of the Wounded - Many frozen to Death on both Sides - The People move to succor the Wounded-Immense Quantities of Supplies forwarded-Seven thousand Prisoners sent to Camp Douglas - Five hundred die

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FTER the battle of Bull Run had been fought and lost, there was a lull in the storm of war on the Atlantic Coast. "All is quiet on the Potomac!" was daily bulletined from the army for months, until the people became depressed and exasperated. They could not understand the strange inactivity of the land forces, nor the timidity and weakness of the government.

In November, 1861, Major-General Scott, weighted with age and infirmities, resigned his position, and young General McClellan was installed in his place. as commander-in-chief of the army. The heart of

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