"Sally's Soldier"

(A Decoration-day Story.)

by Christine Chaplin Brush, May 1880

A patriotic fevor seen very seldom these days (although it seems a bit startling that a child would have wanted a relative to be wounded in battle!). Out of this misguided patriotism a true good deed is born.

Two little girls were going swiftly through Squire Blossom's yard, taking a short cut home from school. It was late in the May afternoon. The school had been out some time, and the little girls were hurrying along and talking so busily that they did not notice even the old white sheep who pushed his nose at them through the bars for his usual petting.

One of the children was listening with a sympathizing face to the other, who wore a pink sun-bonnet and a bluechecked apron.

"Of course, you don't mind," said the little girl with the pink bonnet; "of course you don't, for your uncle had one arm shot off, and died, and you can always say he was in the war and was awful brave, and shot off ever so many guns, and waved flags, and drummed awful hard, and slashed his sword about, and cut things all up."

"Oh, did he do all that?" asked little Mary, quite elated. "I did n't know it; who told you?"

"Oh, of course he did," said Sally; "all the men were very brave that went from our town. Mother says father was too sick to go to the war, and I feel awful ashamed about it. My uncle went, but he never lost one of his fingers, even, and never got shot one bit; so it's just the same as if he 'd never been!"

"I should think you 'd be glad he did n't get hurt," said little Mary, who could not follow Sally in her patriotic flight. "Perhaps your uncle fired and drummed just as hard as mine, and perhaps he shot the enemy so fast that nobody got a chance at him."

"Well, I 'm real mad and ashamed, too," replied Sally. "Tuesday is Decoration-day, and there is n't one grave that 's any relation to me in all that grave-yard, and there is n't a name on that monument in Martinsville that belongs to our folks!"

But, when Sally took her seat in school the next morning, her face wore a cheerful and determined air; and at recess, when the little boys and girls were discussing the glories of Decoration-day, she joined in the conversation as freely as if she had owned all the soldiers in town.

"I'm going to walk to Martinsville and hear the speeches, and see the monument trimmed up," said a big boy. "Seven of those names belong to our village. I wish I had been a soldier."

"So do I!" cried Sally. "Why, when I hear the crackers on Fourth of July, I feel awful patriotic! Oh, I wish I had lived in the Revolution! When I study about those brave women I just wish I had been one of them. I 'd have kept a little gun in my kitchen, and if I 'd seen a red-coat coming, I 'd have popped him off."

The boys laughed at Sally's warlike spirit, but the girls were rather startled.

"Why, Sally Barnes," said little Mary, "I never knew you hated folks so, before; why, I 'd have taken a red-coat in, and hid him in our garret, up behind the old spinning-wheel and the chests. I 'd have tied up his shot places and taken his dinner to him. I would n't be so unkind to anybody."

"I guess you would n't have done that if he 'd been shooting your father, would you?" asked Sally, to bring the matter home.

"Oh, but I did n't mean one that had shot father," said little Mary, in dismay.

"They are going to decorate the graves in our village first," said the big boy who had spoken before. "There's only seven, you know, and then they 'll all go over to Martinsville; you girls wont, of course, you can't walk three miles and back."

"I can," said Sally, "and I 'm going to, too."

"Why, Sally!" cried one of the big girls, "you need n't be so interested; you were n't born when the war closed, and none of your relations died in it, and if they had they 'd never know whether you tramped over that hot, sandy road or not. Whose grave are you going to weep over?"

Sally was silent.

"l guess she's going to weep over my uncle's," said little Mary, anxious to share her blessing with her friend. "My uncle used to live next door to her house, you know."

"I don't want to borrow anybody's relation's grave," said Sally, "for I've got one of my own, now. It never did belong to anybody, and I've adopted it; so I've got a right to go to Martinsville, if I want to!"

The big boys and girls burst out laughing. "Whose grave is it, Sally?" they asked.

"It's John Anderson's," said the little girl, "and it does n't belong to any of you, for I asked my father, and he said it did n't. He was a Swede, and worked for the doctor, and went to the war, and came back sick and died, and did n't belong in this town. So I said I'd have him for my soldier, and my father says I can."

Everything Sally took hold of was done thoroughly. "I'd rather have one hour of Sally's work than three of Katy's," her mother used to say.

The family, when she told them of "her grave," only laughed; they were used to "Sally's ways."

Early on Decoration-day morning, Sally went to the grave-yard, which was lying fresh and green in the morning sun. It was a place where one might like to rest after a sad and weary life. It lay on a little rise of ground, and was surrounded by a low stone wall, tinted by lichens in green and gold.

It was uncarcd for, except as Nature tended it. The blackberry-vines ran at will over the low stones, the bees hummed in the long grasses, which waved, and blossomed, and died, untouched by the scythe.

Violets bloomed thickly in the spring-time, and the daisies bent and swayed in the sweet summer air. Far off lay the blue sea. Quiet was always there, and rest belonged to the place.

It looked very bright on this May morning; and Sally, in her pink sun-bonnet, stepped resolutely along until she came to " her grave." She cut the grass carefully from it with a large pair of scissors, and heaped the mound with flowers.

When the little procession turned into the yard, the people were all surprised to see the grave of the poor Swede, who had lived for so short a time among them, carefully trimmed and decorated.

After the simple ceremony was over, the people separated, most of them returning to their homes. Sally, however, followed the men and boys who were going to Martinsville.

The minister and his wife rode in a buggy. When they saw Sally trudging along in the hot sun, they offered to tuck her in between them, and she was very glad to accept the invitation.

"Why were you taking this long walk, my dear?" asked Mr. Raymond.

"I want to hear the speeches, and go to Decoration-day, and see the monuments. Besides," said Sally, " I want to hear what they are going to say about John Anderson."

"Who is John Anderson?" asked the minister. "Do you mean Major Anderson of Sumter?"

"I don't know, sir,—I mean a man who died in the war, for us. He was a Swede, and need n't have gone to our war at all, only he was so polite," Sally replied.

"I remember the poor fellow, now; he came here as a sailor on one of our ships, and stayed—worked on the doctor's farm. He was an honest, hard-working man; he little thought he had come among us only to find a grave."

"Why did n't they have him buried near his relations ?" asked Sally.

"No one knew, I suppose, where his friends lived."

"And perhaps," said Sally, "his mother is looking out for him all the time, and thinks he has forgotten her," and tears came into her large gray eyes.

Sally told Mrs. Raymond about adopting the grave, and the lady was much amused and touched.

When they came into Martinsville, the scene was quite exciting to the little girl.

The streets were filled with people, and, on the little square where the monument stood, the band was playing slow and mournful music.

Sally's heart thrilled with the sound.

Mr. Raymond tied his horse to a tree near the square, and then they walked on to the "green," to be within hearing of the speakers.

Sally listened attentively, as one after another named the brave fellows who had given their lives for their country.

When Squire Barnard rose, Sally never took her eyes from him; he was from her village, and would speak of the soldiers who belonged there.

He named and praised one and another, briefly, and then sat down; he never mentioned John Anderson! Sally's cheeks grew red,—she pulled Mr. Raymond's sleeve.

"I did n't think Mr. Barnard was so unkind and mean," she whispered; "he never said one single word about John Anderson; and I 'll never play with his little girl again! When I'm big enough, I 'll carve a head-stone for my soldier."

A gentleman now spoke to Mr. Raymond, and the two walked off together toward the platform. The minister rose to say a few words.

He said he wanted to tell a little story. So he told them of Sally's adopted grave, and spoke very tenderly of the poor stranger who had cast his lot among them; and of the little girl who wished to keep his memory fresh, and who had felt hurt that the Squire had forgotten to mention him.

"Let 's see the little girl," said a voice; and before Sally knew where she was, a man had lifted her on to the platform. She looked upon the crowd; and then she held down her head, the tears in her eyes. The people all laughed.

"I propose," said Mr. Raymond, " that we give money enough to this little woman, to buy a simple headstone for the grave of John Anderson."

The people clapped their hands, and a man passed his hat around among the crowd. Pennies rattled, and bits of paper fluttered into it; and soon he came to the platform, and told Sally to hold out her apron. It was quite heavy with pennies, and there were dollar bills among them!

Sally smiled and quite forgot herself, thinking of the people's kindness. "Oh, thank you," she said, her eyes sparkling. And then she added, suddenly, in a grateful tone of voice: "I 'll put some flowers on your monument the next time we ride over."

Then everybody clapped their hands, and stamped and laughed; and Sally was helped down and took her seat again by Mrs. Raymond.

The Squire said the speakers ought to ride home together; so he put Sally into his carriage, which was lined with blue cloth, and had a nice stuffed back, and springs in the seat.

Sally's mother was quite surprised to see her little girl getting out of Squire Barnard's carriage. She had worried about her all day, for she never dreamed that she really meant to go all the way to Martinsville.

Sally told the family all about her day, and how she had been on the platform; and she showed the money; and her father, when he had heard all, said he should never worry about that girl,—she always fell feet down!

The story of Sally's patriotic zeal soon spread around the firesides of the county, and several gentlemen and ladies, who were not present at the celebration, sent her money to help in buying the head-stone.

When she had thirty dollars, Sally began to grow impatient to have the work done. So she dressed herself very neatly one afternoon, and called on Mrs. Squire Barnard. The lady smiled kindly on her, and said:

"Oh, this is the little girl who made the speech at Martinsville! I am glad to see you again, dear. Can I do anything for you?"

"Yes, ma'am," replied Sally; "I came to ask you if you would take your nice carriage some day and go shopping with Mrs. Raymond and me, for a head-stone for my soldier. I don't want to buy just any one that happens to be left over at the Center."

Mrs. Barnard said she was going on Monday to the county town, where there were two or three marble-yards, and that she would be very happy to take Mrs. Raymond and Sally with her in the carriage.

That was a proud and happy day when the little girl climbed into the fine carriage and took her seat opposite the two ladies.

But when they reached the marble-yard, Sally was very much disappointed not to find a stone all ready and waiting for her, with drums and fifes, and swords and guns carved on it.

Mrs. Raymond said that, as there was no more war where her good soldier had gone, some emblem of peace would be better.

Sally then turned her attention to the doves and lambs she saw on head-stones, but, after some effort, the ladies diverted her from these; and soon they all agreed on a beautiful white marble scroll.

The price of this was thirty-five dollars; but when the owner heard the story of Sally's soldier, he said he would sell it for thirty.

If ever you should visit Sally 's town, you would see a well-kept grave in the church-yard, with a scroll at its head, on which is carved in bold relief:

"John Anderson,
A Native of Sweden,
Aged 28 Years"
And beneath this a grateful acknowledgement of the sacrifice the young stranger had made for union, justice and liberty among us.

"'Old Glory' In the Desert

by Ralph D. Paine, July 1907

Memorial Day began after the Civil War, as "Decoration Day," when the graves of those fallen were cleaned (the family's reponsibility back then, not the graveyard's) and decorated with flowers and flags, hence the name. It seems a bleak life today for such a boy.

There was not even a house within thirty miles of them. Two tents by a driven well, a pile of baled hay, half a dozen drooping horses vainly trying to find a patch of shade, and a row of dusty water barrels comprised the new stage station set down in the heart of the Nevada desert. The white sand and sage-brush stretched desolate to the bare brown mountains that cut the sky-line along the rim of Death Valley. A little dust cloud moved far out on the dazzling plain and marked the crawling progress of a freighters' outfit. Except for this there were no signs of mankind anywhere beyond the camp.

A boy in his early teens came out of one of the tents, and blinked in the glare of sand and sky. He was burned blacker than the deepest seashore tan, and the powdery alkali dust had turned his hair and clothes to a grayish white. He shaded his eyes with a battered sombrero and looked across the desert beyond the dust that hung above the freighters' wagons. A blue lake sparkled miles away, and its banks were green with trees and undergrowth. The boy was not deceived by the mirage. He shook his head as if to say "You can't fool me; I know your tricks," and kept on gazing into the north. His vigilance was well-timed, for presently another whirl of dust showed against the horizon, and the boy shouted to some one in the tent:

"Here comes the stage, Uncle John. I hope there are some passengers for us to feed. My, if they 'd only bring just one boy through, and I could talk to him for half an hour. Would n't it be great! I have n't seen a boy since we came in the desert to live."

The "boss" of the station replied, as he poked the tent flap aside:

"This desert don't sprout youngsters, that 's a fact. Jimmy. We 're lucky if we get a stray man to pass the time o' day with. Help me get the relay horses ready, and then dust off an extra plate and cup. Jake may have a hungry passenger. It's about time. Nobody's been here in two days."

The boy led a pair of lanky grays out of the little corral by the well, tied them to a post in front of the tents, and scurried inside with an excited air as if great things were about to happen. His few duties were soon done and he was perched on the well box in waiting eagerness long before the stage emerged from its curtain of dust. This was no towering coach with four horses such as "dashed up to the old-fashioned tavern" with a fine clatter and the music of a horn. Two straining horses pulled a battered Concord wagon through the deep sand at a snail's pace. Their slow walk quickened a little as they drew near the tents, and the boy saw with a pang of disappointment that the bent and white-whiskered driver was the only occupant. He grinned through the alkali mask that covered his wrinkled face and called to the boy: "Nothin' doin', Jimmy. This route ain't as popular as if it had Pullman sleeping-cars. I 've been eight hours makin' thirty miles. Grub ready?"

Jimmy followed the driver to the mess-tent and peppered him with questions about the news from the big outside world beyond the desert. The old man fished a newspaper from an inside pocket, and said:

"Here 's a Los Angeles Times that was passed along from Las Vegas. It 's four days old, but it may cheer you up some."

Jimmy acted as waiter while the driver bolted his beans, bacon, canned corned-beef and coffee, and then the two shifted the harness to the fresh team of horses.

A few minutes later the stage moved on like a boat steering out of sight across a lonely sea, and Jimmy felt the isolation of the desert closing down around him again. His uncle stretched out on a blanket in the sleeping-tent and soon his snores told the boy that there was not a living soul to talk to anywhere. He sat down in the mess-tent, spread the newspaper on the rough plank table, and slowly read the head-lines. It was hard for him to realize that men and women and boys and girls were still working and playing in crowded city streets.

It seemed a whole lifetime since he had left the home in Los Angeles he had always known, and ihe faces of his young friends were blurred and fading in his memory. He had been in the desert only three months, but its utter loneliness had made him sometimes think he was getting to be a little old man.

He looked through the newspaper idly until this brief article caught his eye:

"The Phil Sheridan Post, G. A. R., has completed its arrangements for the Memorial Day exercises and parade. There is much regret among the veterans in blue that their old Post Commander, Captain John Bright, will be absent from the ranks. For ten years he had led the Memorial Day pilgrimage to the graves of the heroes who fought for Old Glory. He left the city recently to take up his residence in Nevada, but the old soldiers are hoping that if Captain Bright is alive, he will get here to take his old place at the head of the thinning column."

The boy ran into the other tent waving the newspaper around his head, shouting:

"Uncle John! Here 's something for you. Wake up! They have n't forgotten us back home."

Captain Bright sat up on his blanket and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. He read the paragraph and his gray beard could not hide the quivering lip. Then he said slowly, as if it hurt him:

"Yes, they 're looking for me, but I won't be there this year. Jimmy. We can't go back. Why, it 's only two days to the thirtieth of May. Not that I 've lost track of the date. Not for a minute. I 've been thinking of it a whole lot. But we can't leave the station, and—and—well. I sort of wish I had n't seen this. I do, Jimmy."

Jimmy's sympathies were deeply stirred, and with an unusual show of affection he nestled on the blanket beside Uncle John and flung an arm around his neck. The old soldier re-read the paragraph, this time aloud, and his voice trembled a little when it came to the mention of "Old Glory." Then he rose to his feet and stood very erect as if ashamed of his show of feeling, and rested his hands on the boy's slim shoulders as he told him:

"We 'll make the best of it, Jimmy. There is n't much chance for a celebration out here, but they have not forgotten us, and you bet we have n't forgotten them, those above the ground and those that are under the sod. Pshaw, it 's tougher for you to be stuck out here a hundred miles from nowhere than it is for me. Don't you hate me for it sometimes?"

"I get kind of homesick and lonesome, but you 're all I 've got, Uncle John, and we 're pardners," the boy responded. "There 's nobody else to grub-stake me, and we 're going to win out yet, you bet. And you 'll go back and lead the Grand Army, sure. Maybe next year."

The old man shook his head. It seemed to him that he had made a failure of his life. A slack and dishonest partner had wrecked the business he had toiled for years to build up. On the brink of old age, and without capital, he had been unable to make a new start in the crowded commercial life of the city. The help offered by his friends had seemed to him little more than disguised charity, and he had grasped the chance to take charge of one of the stations of the stage line flung across the desert to reach the new gold camps in southwestern Nevada.

The care of his dead sister's only boy had sorely perplexed him when he faced the exile that was almost ghastly for a seasoned man to endure. He wrestled with the problem, and it seemed best to take Jimmy with him through the first summer. By autumn he might have saved enough from his wages to outfit the boy for school and keep him there. A touch of selfishness had swayed this decision. The old man sighed over his weakness. But he could not bear to face the lonely life without a companion. Jimmy was the pluckier of the two, the old man thought to himself, as he looked down into the eager face of the lad who wanted to be a help in time of trouble.

No more was said about Memorial Day, but after supper they sat together under the stars that blazed low in the velvet sky, and the old man was moved to tell stories that thrilled the blood of youth:—of Antietam and Fredericksburg, of forlorn hopes, and of thin lines of blue and gray hurled in desperate charges, until to the wide-eyed boy, the dusky desert was peopled with marching men. In the shadows beyond the fire the cacus took the shape of crouching sentries, and the seriied sage-brush, vaguely glimpsed in the darkness, was like infantry sleeping on its arms.


Through the forenoon of Memorial Day, Captain John Bright was restless and absent-minded. His thoughts were back with his comrades. He could see them tramping behind the band to the strains of "Marching through Georgia," here and there a straggler falling out to rest, and some of those who kept up with the flag walking with feeble and halting gait. He had been one of the youngest and strongest of the little column last year, and he wondered who could take his place this year and step out with something of the old stride that had carried him with Sherman to the Sea.

Jimmy wrestled with a problem of his own. He was too young to give up the idea of some kind of a celebration. There were no soldiers' graves, there were no flowers, but he did find a mite of an American flag that had been brought along with his slender outfit as a souvenir of a Fourth of July parade of the "Golden West Cadets," in which imposing organization he had been a corporal. He waited until the stage had passed through, and then announced to Uncle John:

"I don 't think it 's right to let the day go by without doing something,—honest I don 't. You know that prospector's grave about two miles over toward Funeral Range? I mean the man that got lost and died of thirst last year. There 's nothing but a little heap of rocks, but for all we know he may have been an old soldier. You can 't say he was n't. And anyhow he was a brave man or he would n't have been going into Death Valley alone. I 'm going to ride my burro over, and stick this little flag on his grave. I 'll feel a heap better and it won't do any harm, will it?"

Captain Bright looked pleased and touched, but replied with a slightly worried air:

"I 'm not sure you won't get lost yourself. But I think I can see you all the way from here. Be sure to fill your canteen. Jimmy, and don't get out of sight of camp. I 'd go with you, but there 's a freight outfit coming in from the southward and they 'll want water."

The boy scampered over to the corral and saddled his mouse-colored burro, which protested with a pair of agile heels and a voice of surprising volume for the absurd dimensions of the beast. With the little flag tucked inside his shirt, Jimmy marched off in the wake of the burro, preferring to go on foot through the deep sand of the first mile. As he trudged along, steering the wrong-headed burro, which behaved like a rudderless skiff in a big wind, the boy busied himself weaving stories, as he had done so often, about the unknown prospector whose bleached bones lay under the heap of rock surrounded by four dusty sage-bushes.

Perhaps he had found a mine and was trying to get out of the desert with the news of his treasure when he lost his way and ran out of water. Or maybe he had been hurt or fallen sick, and his burros had run away from him. Was there a boy waiting for him somewhere at home? It was very sad and mysterious, but it was a part of life of the desert, and Jimmy though it over as only one of the many stories of the same kind that had come out of the Death Valley country. It was the most vivid of all to him, and one that he longest remembered, because there was the pile of stone to make it very real.

By the time he had crossed the two miles of brush and sand the boy had made up a new story about the lost prospector to fit the day and the deed. He was an old soldier, a Grand Army man, of course, and he had fought bravely in many battles. This was what made it so hard to think of his losing his life in a fight with heat and thirst, with no comrades to keep his memory green.

Jimmy took off his hat while he stuck his flag between two fragments of lava on the rude mound. Then while his burro drifted off to browse on the sage-brush, the boy gathered more stones and heaped them high at the head of the grave.

He was tired and hot when he finished his labor of love, and plodded after the burro, that had ambled several hundred yards from the scene. Having caught the beast, he cinched up the saddle and then gazed across the desert toward the Funeral Range whose ramparts hid the basin of Death Valley. Those bare and ragged walls, swimming in a blue haze of heat, sometimes frightened him. They spoke of the terrors which they hid from his view. He was glad that Uncle John was not a prospector, toiling among those forbidding mountains.

He was about to turn his face toward the camp, when he thought he saw something move over toward the mountains. He shaded his eyes and stared with idle curiosity, for he had learned that what you think you see, and what you really see, are different matters in the desert. But whirls of dust like little puffs of smoke rose above the black dot that appeared and then vanished as if it were slowly rising and falling.

It was not a man walking, and anyhow no man alone and on foot had any business coming from that direction. Jimmy felt a touch of fear, but he dug his heels into the burro and moved toward the object that was still for several minutes and then seemed to be floundering toward him again. Once it stood erect and Jimmy gasped. It looked like a man. He was afraid no longer. If it was a man, he was in dreadful distress, and needed help.

At length the object ceased to move. When Jimmy drew near, he saw a man, naked to the waist, lying face down, and it looked as if there was no more life in him. His shoes were gone, lie had no canteen, no hat, and his hands and feet were bleeding where he had been crawling and falling in his last struggle to move on. The boy fell on his knees and tugged at the blistered shoulders with all his might, until he half-turned the helpless man so that his face was clear of the choking sand.

Then Jimmy wet the blackened lips with water from his full canteen, and managed to unlock the clenched teeth, and pour a few drops on the swollen tongue. Finally the man swallowed, once, twice. The effect was magical. His eyes opened, he groaned, and tried to raise himself on his hands and knees. But he lurched forward and fell, and Jimmy wrung his hands, for it seemed impossible that he could raise the dead weight to the back of the burro. He was afraid to leave the man here while he went to camp for help, and the tears rolled down his cheeks in his worry and grief as he shouted in desperation:

"It 's only a little way to camp. It 's only a little way to camp. I 'll help you. Can't you get up?"

Another drink from the canteen, and the man's wits began to clear a little.

"I 'm all in," he muttered. "But I 'm not dead yet. Bring the burro."

For a wonder the burro stood docile in its tracks while the man made one great, despairing effort and, pulling himself up by the stirrup-leather, fell doubled across the saddle like a sack of meal. Jimmy could do no more than hold him there as he struggled along beside the burro and its silent burden. It was a slow and heartbreaking journey for the lad, but long before he drew near the camp, Uncle John had seen that something was amiss, and was running toward them. He read the story in a glance, and when he had dragged the unconscious stranger into the tent and laid him on the blankets, he called to Jimmy:

"You were just in time. He 'll pull through. Open a can of that beef tea and put the kettle on. Another hour and you would n't have been a bit of use."

The pink and azure twilight was falling when the lost prospector sat up on the blankets, his head in his hands, and said brokenly:

"I 'm alive, and I ain't gone plumb crazy. Thank God for His mercies. I wonder where my burros are. Is this here camp in the Death Valley, pardner?"

"You were twenty miles out of the Valley when we found you, and you came that far alone and clean distracted, that 's certain," responded Uncle John.

"What was this kid doin' out where he found me?" feebly asked the prospector.

"I was celebrating Decoration Day," bashfully explained Jimmy. "There is— there is a grave out there."

"There came blame near bein' another one alongside of it," was the reply. "Celebratin' Decoration Day in this God-forsaken hole! Well, you are a lively young patriot! And lucky for me!"

Jimmy did not want to claim too much credit.

"It was all on account of Uncle John— I mean Captain Bright here," said he. "He 's a Grand Army man. you know, and I could n't let the day go by without doing something to let him see that I remembered."

Captain Bright broke in with:

"You 're as gray as me, stranger, and there 's a scar that shows across that bald head of yours. Maybe you were one of the boys in blue."

A smile lit up the cracked and blackened face of the old prospector as he spoke, and he stretched out a bandaged hand: "No, I reckon I was n't. But I wore the old butternut under Jeb Stewart, and one of Phil Sheridan's troopers put that dent in my cabeza. I guess we ain't going to fight it over agin, are we? Here 's how!"

Captain Bright smiled back and took the old Confederate's hand in both of his, as he said:

"Here 's where we celebrate the day together, then. And we 'll thank God that your grave is n't ready to be decorated to-night. You came mighty near giving me an excuse for a parade all by myself."

From outside there came the rattle of trace-chains, and the creaking of wagons, and the noise of a driver's eloquence hurled at weary mules. Captain Bright hurried out and found a freight outfit pulling up to the well. Its crew made camp near the corral, and when the chores were done the "mule-skinner" and the "swamper" strolled over to buy "a bunch of canned goods." They sat by the camp-fire while Captain Bright and Daniel Yake, late of the Army of the Confederacy, swapped stories of the great days when they were foemen in arms. Then one of the freighters, a tall Texan, burst into song when he could hold in no longer, and in full chorus the little company, North and South, the Blue and the Gray, swung from "Dixie" into "The Star Spangled Banner."

But it was the two old men who sang together afterwards, while the others were silent, "We 're Tenting To-night on the Old Camp-ground."

Jimmy murmured, drowsily, as the fire died down and the freighters said good night:

"We certainly did celebrate, after all. You can't lose Old Glory even in the desert."