A cold drizzly rain has been falling all day. The sentry will have a dreary time to-night for the howling winds are piercing. It is now dark and the ground is all saturated with water (shivering winds, and chill whistlings.) Hollow coughs and long sighs are heard as the sentinels pace their lonely beats. Quiet tramping is now heard, and amid the dense darkness two comrades meet. We see where they stand by the falling of the sparks from their pipes. They are talking now about the news from Stone River, and the Rappahannock, and of the flow of blood that has made red their brewing waters. They stop—they are silent—but again the stillness is broken; says one, “John, I received by the last mail a letter from home, and they tell me that they trail the flag up there—that they shoot down the furloughed soldiers, and insult our wounded comrades, that our father's lives have been threatened because they have hearts that go out and take in the army and navy, because they have sons who wear the blue, fighting for the flag and union.” As these sentries turned on their way, we imagine that on that dreary path along where the winter winds kept sighing mournfully, tears fell, and their hearts were sad, because they knew that in the north, around their father's homes, where once they looked in the innocence of childhood, could be found so many who would smile to see the old flag go down and Liberty's cradle rock no more.
No comments:
Post a Comment