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V. UNMARKED GRAVES.

Among the touching sights reported by those who explored the battle-field of Fair Oaks, in order to bury the dead and minister to the wounded, was the following:

In one portion of the field, lying apart by themselves, were four dead soldiers. They had crept together and laid each a right hand upon that of his comrade, and thus died. A paper lay upon the breast of one of them, and a pencil near by on the ground, showing what their last work had been.

It is hard to think of leaving the world and having all trace of our fate hidden forever from those dear to us. To furnish the possible means of some information respecting them, one of the men had written on the paper, with a faltering hand,

"Four dying soldiers. Be kind enough to give us a decent burial."

And then below these words were written the four names of the slain martyrs. We wept as we buried them together where they had lain; and, placing over them a tablet with the names they had so touchingly bequeathed to us, we enclosed the grave by a little railing, and left them to their last long sleep. "The sea shall give up its dead," and so, also, shall the battle-field, billowy with unmarked graves, unmarked save by "His eye which seeth every precious thing."1

1 Job xxviii. 10.

VI. SPIRIT OF SIRE AND SON.

The battle of Lexington was fought on the nineteenth of April, 1775, and the first Massachusetts volunteers were mobbed on the same day of the month, 1861, in the streets of Baltimore. They were the first men who responded to the call of the President for seventy-five thousand soldiers, after the capture of Sumter. Such was their promptitude that some of them left their homes at midnight, and, pressing their way through a storm of driving sleet, were in Boston under arms, awaiting orders to march, before another sun had risen, after their receiving the summons. That promptitude had much to do with saving the government. Without it, the boast of the rebels, when they planted their flag on Sumter, might have been made good. Before the end of May, that flag might have floated from the capitol at Washington, and the savage eye of the slave power have been glaring down upon us from the turrets of the captured city.

As one of these regiments was passing through New York, a gentleman of that city met one of its members on the street.

"Is there anything I can do for you?" said the New Yorker, whose heart warmed toward the representative of the brave Massachusetts militia who had been so prompt to shoulder the musket.

The soldier hesitated a moment, and finally, raising one of his feet, exhibited a boot with a hole in the toe, and, in other respects, decidedly the worse for wear.

"How came you here with such boots as those, my friend?" asked the patriotic citizen.

"When the order came for me to join my company, sir," replied the soldier, "I was ploughing in the same field at

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Concord where my grandfather was ploughing when the British fired on the Massachusetts men at Lexington. He did not wait a moment; and I did not, sir."

It is needless to say that the soldier was immediately supplied with a full equipment for all his wants, and with a "God-speed" was sent forward on his way.

VII. THE UNKNOWN CHILDREN.

A gentleman from Philadelphia, who was at Gettysburg as a volunteer surgeon, obtained there a most touching relic of that terrible battle. It was a melainótype, or an ambrotype on iron of three children, and was taken from the hands of a dead soldier who belonged to the Union army. He had been mortally wounded, and crawled to a sheltered place, where his body was found, with the picture of his children so placed that his eyes could rest upon it in his dying moments. There was no clew to his name, or his regiment, or his former place of residence. He had evidently carried it with him into battle, and that image perhaps of a motherless group that must be cast henceforth upon God's fatherhood shows with what thoughts it was hardest for him to struggle in death.

Of the children in the picture, two were boys and one a girl, all of them with features of uncommon beauty. The oldest, a boy, is seated in the centre, the youngest, a boy, on the other's right hand, and a little girl on the left. The picture had a flat gilt frame, and probably had been sent to the soldier from home in a letter. It is to be hoped that it may find its way yet into the hands of some of the relatives of the deceased father.1

1 Since this paragraph was laid aside for insertion here, the identity of the unknown soldier has been ascertained. His name was Humiston, and his widow and three children live at Portville, Cattaraugus County, New York. The publicity given to the circumstance led to this discovery.

VIII. A MOTHER'S LOVE.

It was early morning, on the first day of May, 1863, that the regiment of which the writer is a member left its bivouac in a thick grove of young oaks, and started at a quick step down a wide road leading to the famed city of Fredericksburg, Virginia.

A battle was expected. We felt that life was uncertain, and that ere another sunset, some of our number would be called to their long account; but stern duty beckoned us on, and we advanced to the intrenchments which the rebels had thrown up during the night to stop our progress.

Our regiment, which led the main column, immediately deployed as skirmishers, and advanced at a double-quick toward the battery which the confederates now opened on the line of battle forming behind us; while their skirmishers, concealed by fences and trees, poured a galling fire upon us.

Some few yards in front of my position stood a loghouse, looking as thrifty as most Virginia houses. Just at this moment, while shells were screaming overhead, and the ground was torn with rifle-balls, a woman rushed out of this house and started toward our line. She had gone

but a few steps, however, when she stopped; and then darting back into the building, against which the bullets now fell like rain, almost immediately reappeared with an infant in her arms, and again started toward the array of armed men who had now nearly reached the hut. Our men at this instant stopped the firing. Every one's eye was fixed with intense interest on the mother as she sped like a frightened deer toward a place of safety; and although the bullets fell like hail around her, and several (as I afterward learned) actually pierced her dress, she

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never faltered until she passed through our line, which closed behind her, and then she fell fainting to the ground, but was safe.

How strong must be that love which could urge a tender woman, unused to the horrible din of battle, through a fire which might appall the bravest! Yet her love for her child overcame every emotion of fear. It seemed as if an All-wise Hand turned aside the missiles of death which were hurtling by on every side, and permitted her to escape unhurt. The poetess was indeed right when she wrote,

"Over my heart, in the days that are flown,

No love like mother's love ever hath shone." 1

IX. THE VALUE OF SECONDS.

General Mitchell was well known as an eminent astronomer, in addition to his other merits. An officer with whom he had business to transact reported himself at a later hour than had been named for the interview.

"Sir, you are late," exclaimed the general.

"Only a few seconds," responded the officer.

"Sir, I have been in the habit of computing the value of a hundreth part of a second," retorted the general.

The subordinate felt the rebuke and was silent. The difference of a few seconds affects the movements of earth and sun and stars, and affects often as really the fate of armies and the destiny of nations and individuals, and that, too, in our interests future and eternal as well as present.

1 First published in the Zion's Advocate, Portland, Maine.