you, Frank," said Mrs. Warren, next day.

66

They were pinned, it is said, upon articles sent to the Sanitary Commission. As I read them I thought how the poor men, lonely and sick, would be thrilled by the sight of these affectionate words from home." Frank read the messages aloud:

This blanket was carried up and down, full a mile and a-half, by Milly Aldrich, who is ninety-three years old, that it might be given to some soldier."

66

'My son is in the army. Whoever is warmed by this quilt, that I have worked upon for six days and nearly as many nights, let him remember his own mother's love."

"This blanket covered a soldier in the war of 1812; may it keep some brave man warm in this war against traitors."

"My little son died resting on this pillow. It is a treasure to me, but I part with it for the soldier."

"These socks were knit by a little girl five years old; she is going to knit some more, for mother says they may do some poor soldier good."

66

A box of lint, made in a sick room, in which the sunlight has not entered for nine years, but where God has entered, and where two sons have bade their mother farewell, as they went forth to the war."

"I have given my husband and my boy, and only

wish I had something else to offer with this bundle of bandages, but I haven't.'"

On some eye-shades were written. "Made by one who is blind. Oh! how 1 long to see the dear flag that you are all fighting for."

"A pair of socks, made by a lady who is ninety-seven years old. She is ready and anxious to do all she

"This lint is made by Mrs. Witmer, of Pa., who spun the flax and wove the linen of which it is made in 1812."

"A hundred and fifty years ago, a merry oung lassie in the Ochill hills of Scotland, was spinning flax for her wedding dower. Little did she think that her rosy fingers were preparing material to bind up the wounds of those who fall in this glorious strife. The accompanying bundle is a part of her work."

66

Mrs. Arbicht, of Indiana, has with her own hand put in three acres of wheat, during the past season. Her sons are fighting their country's battles, and during their absence she has nobly striven to keep up the farm."

66

A young lady in Maine has knit a hundred pairs of mittens for the soldiers, furnishing the yarn herself. She has given the mitten,' more frequently than any young woman we know of."

MANY weeks had passed without bringing tidings of the two absent sons, and the family had begun to feel some anxiety about them. The faces of the older members turned a shade paler as they glanced over the newspapers, seeking with silent, painful eagerness for the list of the "killed, wounded, and missing." They said little to each other of the apprehensions common to all, but maintained a semblance at least of their usual cheerfulness. But an afternoon came when the need of such an effort ceased. The father returned from the village looking so relieved and happy that his secret was guessed before he told it; and the children began to fumble in the pockets of his coat after the post-office budget.

91

"Long-looked-for come at last," he said, handing the letter to his wife. "I thought that would please you better than any thing else I could bring, unless 'twas the boy himself."

Exclamations of joy went up from the little circle as the mother parted the envelope, and disclosed a number of closely written pages in Horace's handwriting. She began to read them aloud, her voice trembling with the excitement of the moment, and her eyes half blinded with grateful tears. The first few lines were filled with affectionate inquiries, explanations for the long silence, and other personal matters. The rest was as follows:

FIELD OF SHILOH, near Pittsburg Landing,

** * *

*

April-th, 1862.

* The circumstances around me

are by no means favorable for writing; for since the dreadful battle of the 6th and 7th, everything has been in confusion. We have lain at night on the ground, without tents, or even blankets to cover us from the pouring rain; though so hardened am I now to a soldier's life, I think that inconvenience would scarcely have kept me awake, but for the pain in my right

cheek, which was grazed rather roughly by a ball in the fight on Monday. It is by no means severe enough to keep me in the hospital, but when it needs attention I make a visit to the doctor. The noise of my comrades about me is almost stunning; for not far from sixty-five thousand men are scattered over the area, in the vicinity of the battle-field; but I know not when a better time for writing may be found. What marches are in store for us, or where our next encampment will be, no one knows. Before I speak of the great battle fought here, let me go back a little and narrate what we men of the West have been doing lately for the country. The fall of Fort Donelson has broken the back-bone of the rebellion, we think, right in the middle; for that place was esteemed by them one of the main points east of the Mississippi. Be that as it may, the greatest stampede of, the war took place at Nashville, just after the surrender. The people there, it seems, thought we were whipped at Donelson. Enemy retreating. Glorious result. A complete victory!' was the burden of the Nashville dispatches. On the honor of a soldier the day is ours,' wrote General Pillow, just before he took to his legs, and his 'honor' took wings, and flew away from Donelson. So the Nashville people went to church on Sunday morning, the sixteenth of February, much elated at the supposed Confederate victory. Before the service was done, however, into the city dashed a courier with another despatch. 'Donelson has fallen, and the Yankees are coming.' Next came Floyd, the thief and

་