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Show THE ARGUS retorted; but, d n em, they wouldnt fight us that way. General Hancock was a dashing leader and a gallant soldier. From his graduation at West Point to the brevet rank in Mexico, from the Peninsula and .South Mountain to Gettysburg, from Gettysburg to the end at Governors island, ;Hancock was always a popular man in the best sense of the word. He was associated in many peoples minds His splen-i- . , with old time romance and chivalry. did figure and martial bearing recalled those heroes of whom poets sing and novelists declaim, . but we so seldom see. Englishmen passing their gallant guardsman, ..Colonel Fred Burnaby, in Berlin, Paris, or his native London, at once exclaimed : There goes And yet there were many other Burnaby colonels in the British service besides him, and many other gallant generals in both American armies besides Hancock. What do you remember chiefly of the asked some one of a spectator at pageant? Grants funeral. Hancock, was almost invariably the response.. He was called The Superb from a writer who said that this seemed a part of his make-up- , ..r whether curveting down Broadway in military procession or riding bare headed along the lines of death at. Bloody Angle. He was always popular, although many as ... deserving were far less so. But the commanding appearance of the man, added to his untarnished character and record, gave him a place like that of Xey among the marshals of France. Mere eulogy could not add to his fame. Detraction there is, none; for all loved Hancock and revere his memory now, although writers more often treat of Grant, Sheridan, Lee and Jackson. i , 1 , . . . . . , And fear would mock that palsied tread. The gallant host, which, in its prime,' Once seemed to spurn the oarth they trod, Stands shaken by the hand of Time And dwindled to an awkward squad." Yet all these gaps along the line, So vacant unto other sight, Dear comrades, to your eyes and mine, Are filled with shadow forma Here some who sleep beneath the clay Of Southern fields stand forth again ; Ilero some, who grieved their lives away Shut up in Treasons prison pen. Here from sepulchral field and wood They gather at the bugle call, And stand again, as once they stood. In manly beauty, strong and tall ; And as we call each cherished name That grief has blotted with a tear, Life seems to stir each spectral frame, And ghostly voices answer Here ! But me and mother s never went we seldom git away In pint of fact were alius home on Decoration Day. ;4 They say the old boys marches through the streets in columns grand, the old war tunes they're playin' on the band ; ; . And pitizeny all in. and little children, too, All niarchin' under shelter of the old red,' white and blue." 1 With roses! roses! roses ! evrybody in the town And crowds of girls in white just fairly loaded down ! Oh, dont the boys know it, from their camp acrost the hill? Dont they see their comards cornin and the old flag wavin still? to-nig- cant they hear the bugle and the rattle of the drum ! Aint they no way under heaven they can rickollect us some? Aint they no way we can coax em, through the roses, jest to Oh, say They know that every day on earth s their Decoration Day? Weve tried that me and mother where Elias takes his rest In the orchard in his uniform, and hands acrost his breast; And the flag he died for sailin and in the breeze Above his grave and over that the robin in the trees ! Each year some dear, familiar face To memorys keeping we consign ; Each year some come comrade takes his place Among the shadows in the line, And thus the living ranks grow thin. Ah, few must be the years at most, Before we all are mustered in To serve among the silent host. its loneseme lonesome ! its a Sundy day to me. pears like moren any day I nearly ever see ! Yit with the stars and stripes above, in the air, On every Boldiers grave Id love to lay a lily there. James Whitcomb Riley, And yet It Here is another fragment from the same author, Captain Lee 0. Harris, poet, patriot and teacher : What praise should greet us for the past We may not stay. So let it stand. He strikes but for his own at last, Who battles for his native land. And those wero times when all were brave ; The Man With the flusket. They are building as Babel was built, to the sky, With clash and confusion of speech ; They are piling up monuments massive and high To lift a few names out of reach. d And the passionate, god of the great, In a whimsical riddle of stone, Has chosen a few from the field and the state To sit on the steps of his throne. green-laurele- ll The wife, the mother, as she gave Her loved ones to her countrys call ; Their toils, their wounds she felt them all. : . . The following lines from the pen of T. W. Higginson appeal to me, and I think to us all : We wait for the bugle, the night dews are cold. The limbs of the soldiers feel jaded and old, The field of our bivouac is windy and bare, Oh, not upon the field of blood Came wounds that gave the sorest pain, women stood, But where the white-lippe- d Whose hope, whose happiness, was slain. of the fray For every death-sho- t Had double mission ; far away It found some heart, some bosom fair. And made its final lodgment there. 4 I knew him, I tell you And also I know When he fell on the battle-sweridge. ' That the poor battered body that lay there in blue Was only a plank in the bridge Over which some Bhould pass to a fame G. A. Rmy. That shall shine while the high stars shall shine ! Then for our dead ring funeral bells, And scatter flowers with bounteous hand ; But crown with fadeless immortelles . The wives, the mothers of the land. Quick to our native lands appeal Her sons will spring with leveled steel, But Freedom surest safeguard lies In womans brave Your hero is known by an echoing name, But the man of the musket is mine.. I knew him ! All through him the good and the bad Ran together and equally free ; But I judge, as I trust Christ has judged the poor lad, For death made him noble to me I In the cyclone of war. in the battles eclipse, Life shook out its lingering Bands, And he died with the names that ho loved on his lips, His musket still grasped in his hands ! Up close to the flag, my soldier went down, In. the silent front of the line ; You may take for your heroes the men of renown, But the man of the musket is mine ! You call us brave? So were our sires ; So are our a'xiz ; and so mast be Each generation that aspires To bear the torch of liberty. The fire that made the winter snow Of Plymouth Rock seem summers glow Is burning yet and still will burn FRAGflENTS FOR TO-MORR- While fathers teach what sons should learn. OW HE BUGLE sounds! Fall in! Close up! Right dress! So, steady! , Front! Sergeant, the lines are formed ; begin To call the roll as you were wont In those rough days of long ago ; 'Ere these young men and maids were born, As from the pact floats soft and low The music of the bugle-horn. And with its echoes seems to rise A vision of the vanished years, Till oer that twilight landscape lies The clow of memory's silent tears. The vanished years when stalwart men Touched elbows down the long blue line, And charged through Southern wood and glen, Till earth was drunk with Death's red wine. Ay, redder wine than ere was crushed From purple graves, and richer far Was trod from hero hearts, and gushed About the crimson feet of War. L ok down the line and see d O.d men whose heads are see the to muskets sight, Too blind Too deaf to hear the bugle sound. ' That stooping form is out of line ; That crutch, my friend, is far too slow: That armless sleeve, old comrade mine, ' .. Could never strike the charging foe. That trembling frame could never stand The weary march, the. tentless bed ; No foe would fly that nerveless hand to-nig- ht silver-crowne- .Li-:.- , . - . v;c r y 1 -- - ; , There is peace in the . battle-stor- m May-lade- grace of the hours n That come when the days work is done. And peace with the nameless, who under the flowers Lie asleep in the slant of the sun. Should tread of hostile foe resound And foes invade by field or flood The soil thus christened holy ground By woman's tears and patriot blood, Each step would meet a Spartan band, And some Leonidas would stand In every pass from sea to sea And make a new Thermopylae. For us the ! pt self-sacrifi- ce. There is lead in our joints, there is frost in our hair. The future is veiled and its fortunes unknown As we lie with hushed breath till the bugle is blown. fast-froze- . . . . . But I I will pass from this rage of renown, This ant-hicommotion. and strife; Pass by where the marbles and bronzes look down n With their gestures of life, ... On, out of the nameless who lie neath the gloom Of the pitying cypress and pine ; Your man is the man of the sword and the plume, But the man with the musket is mine. ' Beat the taps ! Put out lights ! and silence all sound ; There is rifle-p-it strength in the grave ! They sleep well who sleep, be they crowned or uncrowned, And death will be kind to the brave. Milwaukee Sentinel. . is past ; Grand-chief-engine- Its crimson rain has washed away F. M. Arthur ofthe er Brotherhood of Locomotive Engineers made a very sensible speech at the reception tendered him in this city. He is a very different man from Boyce. The blot whose inky blackness cast A shadow oer the fairest day. Now freedom wraps her flag of stars About her breast to hide her scars, Anc Peace, returning dove, has brought The olive branch for which she sought. The two stanzas following are from the pen of the gifted Utah poet, Dr. A. S. Condon : twas but yester morn and the gray column Camp'd where slim rifle pits circld the height ; level and solemn Heard we the long-rol-l Saw wo the low tents faint gleaming and white. Then woke a morrow of peril and slaughter; Booming of cannon and bursting of shell; Streams of red blood dyeing rivers of water Told where the warriors had struggled and fell. A o, 25 EAKFAST from 7 to 11 a. LUNCH from 11 : 30 to 3. p. m SUPPER from 3 to S p. m. D. H. PEERY, Decoration Day On the Place. Its lenesome sort o lonesome its a Sundy day to me, It pears like moren any day I nearly ever see!.in the air, Yit with the Btars and stripes above, On every soldiers grave I'd love to lay a lily there. - West Second South, next to Cullen Hotel. - They say, though, Decoration Day is. ginerally observed Host every wheres, especially by soldier bojrs that seiyed ; . t 'if . ir, JR. DE WITT B. LOWE STOCK BROKERS 10 West Second South St., Salt Lake City; Utah. ' . . .. 1 ' . A 1 i - . |