"I WAS with Grant-" the stranger said;
Said the farmer, "Say no more,
But rest thee here at my cottage porch,
For thy feet are weary and sore."
"I was with Grant-" the stranger said;
Said the farmer, "Nay, no more,—
I prithee sit at my frugal board,
And eat of my humble store.
"How fares my boy,-my soldier boy, Of the old Ninth Army Corps?
I warrant he bore him gallantly
In the smoke and the battle's roar !"
"I know him not," said the aged man, "And, as I remarked before,
I was with Grant-" "Nay, nay, I know," Said the farmer, "say no more:
"He fell in battle,-I see, alas!
Thou'dst smooth these tidings o'er,
Nay, speak the truth, whatever it be,
Though it rend my bosom's core.
"How fell he?—with his face to the foe,
Upholding the flag he bore?
Oh, say not that my boy disgraced
The uniform that he wore!"
"I cannot tell," said the aged man,
"And should have remarked before,
That I was with Grant,-in Illinois,—
Some three years before the war."
Then the farmer spake him never a word, But beat with his fist full sore
That aged man, who had worked for Grant Some three years before the war.
The Idyl of Battle Hollow.
(WAR OF THE REBELLION, 1864.)
No, I won't-thar, now, so! And it ain't nothin',-no!
And thar's nary to tell that you folks yer don't know;
And it's "Belle, tell us, do!" and it's "Belle, is it true?"
And "Wot's this yer yarn of the Major and you?"
Till I'm sick of it all,-so I am, but I s'pose
Thet is nothin' to you.. .. Well, then, listen! yer goes!
It was after the fight, and around us all night
Thar was poppin' and shootin' a powerful sight;
And the niggers had fled, and Aunt Chlo was abed,
And Pinky and Milly were hid in the shed:
And I ran out at daybreak and nothin' was nigh
But the growlin' of cannon low down in the sky.
And I saw not a thing as I ran to the spring,
But a splintered fence rail and a broken-down swing,
And a bird said "Kerchee!" as it sat on a tree,
As if it was lonesome and glad to see me;
And I filled up my pail and was rìsin' to go,
When up comes the Major a canterin' slow.
When he saw me, he drew in his reins, and then threw On the gate-post his bridle, and-what does he do
But come down where I sat; and he lifted his hat,
And he says-well, thar ain't any need to tell that—
'Twas some foolishness, sure, but it 'mounted to this,
Thet he asked for a drink, and he wanted-a kiss.
Then I said (I was mad), "For the water, my lad,
You're too big and must stoop; for a kiss, it's as bad—
You ain't near big enough." And I turned in a huff,
When that Major he laid his white hand on my cuff,
And he says, "You're a trump! Take my pistol, don't fear!
But shoot the next man that insults you, my dear."
Then he stooped to the pool, very quiet and cool,
Leavin' me with that pistol stuck there like a fool,
When thar flashed on my sight a quick glimmer of light
From the top of the little stone-fence on the right,
And I knew 'twas a rifle, and back of it all
Rose the face of that bushwhacker, Cherokee Hall!
Then I felt in my dread that the moment the head
Of the Major was lifted, the Major was dead;
And I stood still and white, but Lord! gals, in spite
Of my care, that derned pistol went off in my fright!
Went off-true as gospil !—and, strangest of all,
It actooally injured that Cherokee Hall.
Thet's all-now, go long. Yes, some folks thinks it's wrong.
And thar's some wants to know to what side I belong;
But I says, "Served him right!" and I go, all my might,
In love or in war, for a fair stand-up fight;
And as for the Major-Sho! gals, don't you know
Thet-Lord!-thar's his step in the garden below.
HERE'S the spot. Look around you. Above on the height
Lay the Hessians encamped. By that church on the right
Stood the gaunt Jersey farmers. And here ran a wall—
You may dig anywhere and you'll turn up a ball.
Nothing more. Grasses spring, waters run, flowers blow,
Pretty much as they did ninety-three years ago.
Nothing more, did I say? Stay one moment; you've heard
Of Caldwell, the parson, who once preached the word
Down at Springfield? What, No? Come-that's bad. Why
he had
All the Jerseys aflame! And they gave him the name
Of the "rebel high priest." He stuck in their gorge,
For he loved the Lord God-and he hated King George!
He had cause, you might say! When the Hessians that day
Marched up with Knyphausen, they stopped on their way
At the "farms," where his wife, with a child in her arms,
Sat alone in the house. How it happened none knew
But God-and that one of the hireling crew
Who fired the shot! Enough!-there she lay,
And Caldwell, the chaplain, her husband, away!
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