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Show MEMORIAL DAY. Next Tuesday will be Decoration Day. Its solemnity increases yearly. The graves of the veterans are increasing swiftly now; the veterans' hands to dress those graves are swiftly growing fewer and fewer, and more and more feeble. It is altogether pathetic. The host that was magnificent in valor and irresistible in power, has dwindled now to a stooping few. All the great leaders have fallen asleep, and as of old the rank , and file are following their leaders. The bugles play softly now, the drums are muffled; nothing remains as of old except the flag. That standard grows in impressiveness vith every advancing and E receding year, for it is a symbol that though great hearts by tens of thousands grow still, the country coun-try is sweeping on with steadily increasing majesty and power; that when one generation falters and falls, another, more numerous and just as brave, steps into the vacant ranks and the sublime march never halts, save once a year when the nation stops to spread a new mantle upon the couches of those who have fallen asleep. It is a sacred custom, for if the heroic dead heed it not, it exalts those who perform the holy duty. The nation that forgets its heroes does not long survive, for it holds within itself no elements worth perpetuating. So we hail Decoration Day as one of the year's hallowed days. There was a time when a crisis came and there was nothing that could save native land except breastworks of living, heroic men. That breastworks were built and maintained against the storms that hurtled around and over it for four years. The units that made up that living wall are our concernment today. Some went out on the fiery chariot of war, some, since the war closed, under the friction of the world's work and cares have fallen; all that are left walk with j but feeble steps and bowed forms, but all alike are glorified, and on this day we hail the living and dress with garlands the graves of the dead, and the mantle of a nation's love is drawn around all alike. Peace to the dead, and for the living the prayers that as they pass down life's further decline, de-cline, they may be spared all sufferings, and that kind arms may ever encircle them to steady their last march, and that from final taps they may be awakened by the reveille that rouses the pale host in that morning that dawns beyond the stars. We dress these graves with flowers, for they who lie In slumbers here, while yet in joyous youth, Offered their lives, in consecration high, To native land, to freedom and to truth. They with their breasts the tide of battle stayed, Peace to restore, their country to redeem; On duty's altar all they had they laid, Nor counted they the sacrifice supreme. While trumpets sound their all hails o'er these graves, While muffled drums their long rolls softly beat, While the old t benediction waves, Let us the"" raves enwreath with garlands sweet, Praying meanwhile that the great God above May hold our country ever in his love. |