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LOOK to your Banner, Boys!
Proudly it waves!
Traitors who trampled it
Cold in their graves.
Far over land and sea
Swells the glad cry, "Union and
Praise God on high!"
Look on its gorgeous folds
Sprinkled with light,
Gleaming 'midst battle-wreaths
Sable as night
Bright as the stars that glow
Through the dark storm,
Bright as through murky clouds
Struggles the morn.
Look on its emblems bright-
Emblems we love;
Fondly we clustered them,
Nailed them above:
Red for our Fathers' blood,
White for their fame,
Blue for our Nation's troth:
Pure be its name!
North winds are fondling it
South winds are greeting it
With hope and love.
Waft it from East to West,
Softly each breeze;
Shout for its gallant deeds,
Rivers and seas!
Look o'er its crimson fields,
Furrowed by death!
Trampled the bleeding sods,
Where the hot breath, Scorching
our very souls,
Wrought in us hero's might Never
List to its words of peace, Pure
as the song
Heaven is whispering
All the night long!
"Break not the golden cord,
Mar not this foretaste of Union
Swear then to guard it, Boys,
Ever from stain!
Let of suspicion's breath
No taint remain.
Ever in Freedom's van
Onward it bear; Ever for equal
All things to dare.
When in death's giant grasp
Nations shall fall,
Spread out our Starry Flag
Then as their pall;
God of the true and brave,
Then let it rise,
Symbol of Liberty,
Home to the skies!
NAZARETH, PA., March, 1862.
CAPTAIN HARRY'S VALENTINE.
FEBRUARY 14, 1861. Does any body
remember what sort of a day it was? Whether it shone with sunshine, or lowered
with gray skies? Whether it pelted cold wintry rain, or sent down shrouds of
snow? Whether it hardened its hoary heart in walls of icy adamant, or ran out
meltingly in rippling rivers and flowing tides? Does any body remember? I
remember. It was such a day as sometimes dawns in mid-winter to delude us with
spring fancies of budding trees and springing grass. The sky was blue, the air
was soft, and birds piped in the warm rays of the sun. Under this blue sky, in
this soft air, and genial sunshine of this day of February 14, 1861, Captain
Harry, of the United States service, and commander of the vessel lying at anchor
in the harbor of —: Captain Harry, whose rarely mentioned surname shall not
betray him here, paced up and down the long, narrow deck of his vessel with no
less a personage than Commodore Carey's daughter, Miss Josephine Carey, who in
company with her father and perhaps a dozen others, visits the ship on this
"Pooh! Commodore Carey indeed!
Whoever heard of Commodore Carey?"
Of course you never did. Who said
that you had? Did you expect I was going to give you real names with my real
people and facts?
Josephine Carey was a pretty
little girl. She looked like a child as she walked there beside Captain Harry,
with his big shoulders and martial aspect. Very like a child she seemed too. A
half-shy glance out of her eye, and a hovering smile flitting about her
lips—lips of velvet crimson; and prettiest of all such an enchanting blush,
rising and rising, falling and falling, just as tides rise and fall. But young,
and shy, and tender as she appeared, it was said that the girl fairly wound
Commodore Carey round her little finger. That she carried a high hand in the old
house on - Street, where she was sole and only mistress, in default of a mother
who died at her birth. That she coaxed and wheedled her father even while she
ruled him, to such a degree that he invariably ended his remonstrances with a
"God bless the child!" And all the household seemed to partake of this spirit
indeed; for while that young middy, who called her
cousin, Dick Carey, would tell
with a rueful face how she fairly outwitted him on more than one occasion, he
would as invariably end with a remark as emphatic, though certainly not as
reverent as the Commodore's,
"Ah, but she's a jolly girl,
It is clearly proven then, that
Captain Harry had a dangerous companion as he walked the deck that day.
As the waves murmured and
sparkled before him, so this little Loreley murmured and sparkled at his side.
Would she wind him round her
finger as easily as she had the Commodore? We shall see. Leaning over the
gunwale he asks,
"Do you know, Miss Josephine,
what day this is?"
"What day? let me think,"
counting, "one, two, three," on three little fingers. "Yes, it is Thursday.
Why?" looking up expectantly.
"I do not mean what day of the
week, what day of the month?"
She counted again, and Captain
Harry watched the pretty fingers at their pretty work.
"It is the 14th of February."
"And the 14th of February is St.
Valentine's day. Do you remember, Josephine?"
"Remember what, Captain Harry?"
Captain Harry bit his lip at the
reproof administered in her address. In his earnestness remembering what she
acknowledged forgotten, he had called her "Josephine."
The cool little lady brought him
to his senses with two words, "Captain Harry."
For a moment he was indignant,
not at her reproof, though it hurt, but the forgetfulness or pretense of it.
Another moment and looking down at her he got over his indignation. The shy,
soft eyes were giving him a sidelong glance, and the faintest color was rising
on her cheek.
She did remember! But still she
shook her head. "Remember what, Captain Harry?"
Five seconds agone Captain Harry
would have sworn that he would never have answered that question. Five seconds
agone Captain Harry had felt himself rebuffed and aggrieved by it. Now, on its
repetition, his heart was softened to such a degree that he eagerly made answer.
And all for a pair of brown eyes meeting his shyly, and a pink color coming on a
face that defied suspicion by its innocence. That was the spell.
He made answer, and there was the
least tinge of reproach in his tone.
"You have not forgotten, Miss
Josephine, what you said to use one week ago to-night?"
"Said? Ah, one says so many
things, how can I recall all that I may have said a week ago? A week is an age."
He groaned inwardly; but the
pretty fair face kept on its shy, appealing look, and again hope rose within his
"Perhaps—perhaps it's a girl's
way," he thought. So he went on: "One week ago to-night Miss Josephine Carey
declined answering a question that I proposed to her. On this day she promised a
Very low was his voice, very
quiet was his mien; but Captain Harry was getting sorely impatient under this
"A week ago—a week ago," she
murmured, at length, as if in a dream. "I know the horns and harps were playing,
the 'hundred lights were blazing,' and I walked with Captain Harry in the grand
hall. He was very kind, he was very courteous, and I liked him well. He asked me
a question, but he would not take an answer then; and I told him he should have
it for a valentine on the 14th of February. But there are other 14ths of
February to come, I trust, for both Captain Harry and myself."
"Josephine! Josephine! you can
not mean to put me off in this way? But no, I shall never—"
What was he about to say? Why did
he not say it? Why? Because something dropped upon his hand with a light touch
that thrilled his very soul. A little pink palm, soft and warm.
He turned, flushed and expectant.
She was not trifling with him! She would give him his answer—and she liked him
She began with the very words
"Captain Harry, I like you well,
but I do not think I love you yet."
Then with a tinge of impatience,
"Why did you disturb our pleasant relations? You men spoil every thing by haste.
Well, I will give you your answer now if you wish, but I warn you—" He stayed her with a word. Then,
half in disdain at his own weakness, he asks, "You have known me a year, Miss
Josephine. How long must you know me to find out if you love me?"
"A year! And you want me to spend
a lifetime with you. Truly your sex are consistent. Give me another year, and on
this very day twelve-months I promise you my answer." "On this very day twelvemonths
our country may be plunged in civil war, and in her service I may be out of the
reach of your answer."
She smiled. This gloomy
suggestion, in her estimation, was only brought forward for the occasion. She
"I promise you, nevertheless,
that on this very day twelvemonths you shall have it."
"I may be dead; what then?" he
said, bitterly. "Then you will not need it."
He reddened, bit his lip, and
exclaimed, "Miss Josephine Carey, you are harder hearted than a stone, and I am
a fool to drift round at your will!" "You need not."
" No, I need not. That is very
true; but I do it. My fate be on my own head. So I wait—still wait." Suddenly he faced her.
"Josephine, you are not trifling
She was perfectly in earnest now;
perhaps she had been all along. "Why should you think I trifle
when I say I like you well, but do not love you yet. Do I not here admit
much—enough surely for now? I am young-just twenty. Next week I go to Europe.
Let me see more of the world. At
the end of the year, if I can say 'Yes,' it will be safer for you and for me.
Perhaps at the end of the year you will not care for 'Yes' or 'No.' Then, of
course, it will have been much safer."
"Then I shall be beyond all care.
I shall not change if you do."
She laughed a little, half
"Bah, the world is full of
"And you, where did you learn
that bitter lesson so young?" he questioned.
"By the change about me. Half the
married people I know are ennuye. They have verified the proverb of hasty
marrying. I do not mean to make the mistake. And I ask you to wait a year before
I give myself to you for all the years of my life."
"Ah," and he shook his head
ruefully, "if I only knew that at the end of the year you would give yourself to
me for all the years of your life!"
She threw him a rapid glance, in
which lurked depths of meaning; then dropping two or three pebbles into the
water, she said quickly, "`Ce qui est differe n'est pas perdu.'"
"Jo!" called the Commodore from
the gangway. She turned, but her companion had taken her hand at this last
"Then I may hope for the best?"
he eagerly says. "No, no, hope nothing; how perverse you are!"
"Jo!" again called the paternal
" And you will give me nothing
before we part?" urged the suitor. " No gage d'amitie even: I shall not see you
again; we sail to-morrow; you know."
She slipped her hand out of its
little white mitten, leaving the latter only in his possession. A mischievous
smile, a blush, and murmuring softly, "Gage d'amitie," she sped away to her
father, who for the fourth time called her name.
Holding his gage d'amitie,
Captain Harry stood a moment the picture of puzzled annoyance.
"She has given me the mitten
after all. I had a great mind to throw it overboard. Bah, what a fool that girl
makes of me!"
He shook it savagely, and out
tinkled a ring—"a ring of amethyst." He had seen her wear it often. Did she mean
this too for a "gage d'amitie," or was it accident? He chose to believe the
former; and cheered not a little by the double gage, which so deftly turned the
gage d'amitie to gage d'amour, he returned to his duties with a lighter heart.
Long before the next year came,
the civil war he had prophesied was here.
In Paris with her aunt, Mrs.
Carey—that boy Dick's mother—Josephine heard the news. A letter from her father
summoned her home. The trunks were packed, the passports visaed, the passage
secured, when a sudden and violent illness attacking Mrs. Carey, obliged them to
remain behind. This delay was a sore trial to Josephine. She loved her father,
as her father loved her, with little less than idolatry. Any day might see him
offering up his life for a sacrifice to his country. Did she think as well of
another? Did she remember a day in February when the sky was blue, the air was
soft, and the sun shone kindly? Did she remember her promise of that day, and
the gloomy prophecy whereat she had laughed?
It was spring now, months might
elapse before she would again see her native land. In that time what might not
happen? What dire disaster on sea and shore? what
"—shout and groan and sabre
Ah, it was fearful!
All her talk was of "papa, dear
papa; "but did her thoughts never recur to him who said, "I may be out of the
reach of your answer then!" It is possible; but in Paris—that splendid Paris
which was so full of enchantments, so full of allurements--she had found a
companion who had given a keener charm to all that was charming; who had sung
when she sung, and danced when she danced, and now did not fail to grieve when
A year ago Miss Josephine Carey
would have laughed in your face, if you had told her that Livingston Raynal
would have proved such a companion to her. But a year ago they were in America;
now they were in Paris. It made a vast difference. A year ago she had met him in
company with spirits of a different order. Men whose lives were moved by the
springs of "to-day." Earnest in the present work. Eager for advancement.
Interested in all practical schemes of action and endeavor.
In this company Livingston Raynal
was out of joint. His smooth cultivation lacked the edge of earnestness, his
tastes looked effeminate, his idleness selfish by contrast. But the scene
changes. Instead of this atmosphere of the New World, there is the gracious
gayety, the careless ease of the fascinating Parisien salons. There is no hurry
here. The stream flows evenly and brilliantly, and Life is set to dance-music,
while the sun shines and the fountains play. And here has Livingston Raynal his
true orbit, where he swings, a star. And here Josephine Carey and the star find
each other. Pleasant finding it is, as I have said, but do you suppose that Miss
Josephine has surrendered her whole heart to this pleasure? You shall see.
One, two, three months went by,
and Aunt Catherine's illness had settled into a slow disease which admitted of
no removal. She had been a mother to Josephine, and she was her sole relative in
Paris. Could she leave her?
One two, three months, and all
her talk was of "papa," until a night in August she sat in their salon reading
aloud to her one auditor—Mr. Raynal —a letter just received from her father. It
was full of vivid description and suggestion. It told of past conflict and
defeat, of present preparation on sea and shore, the gathering battalions and
the armed fleet.
As the girl read her color came
and went, her eyes darkened and glowed, her lips quivered and smiled.
Her listener watched her, with
his fastidious sense of charm fully awakened; and Josephine thought, as she met
the gaze, that his heart was stirred—as hers was stirred—with patriotic ardor.
Stopping at last, she fell from her high flight of
' glory into the sad dreams of a
woman who can only watch and wait. Doubly sad to her it seemed then, waiting
there, miles and miles away. And as she thought, something rose in her throat.
She struggled with herself, but rebellious nature would have its way, and a
brief passion of tears relieved the passion of regret.
Mr. Raynal was all alert in an
instant. He was very, very sorry.
"What was it—no bad news,
The eyes wept on uncomforted. The
lips refused to answer.
Mr. Raynal grew more solicitous.
What was the matter with dear
"Dear Miss Josephine" suddenly
glanced upon him from behind her handkerchief with a vehemence that startled and
amazed him, answering, quite sharply, that it was matter enough, she should
think, to be removed at such a distance from her father in times like these.
Mr. Raynal had made a mistake.
Perhaps, if he had been a Frenchman, he would have shrugged his shoulders at it,
and in endeavoring to make it better would have made it worse. But Mr. Raynal
did not shrug his shoulders, and in endeavoring to remedy his blunder he met
with signal success. Asking her pardon like a gentleman, but like a gentleman
who was hurt, gravely and with dignity. Whereat Miss Josephine, who had been
used to torment better men all her days, actually drew in her little sharp
horns, and felt much as if she had made herself ridiculous. So much for Mr.
Raynal's power. How far would it extend?
Then the gentleman essaying
consolation, patched his blunder up with earnest words of sympathy.
He was sure that before many
weeks her aunt would be able to sail. Nothing would be done until then. The
movements of the army were slow.
Listening, the tears stopped, and
the sun shone in her smile. Listening, she fell a-dreaming—pleasant dreams, for
the smile deepened, the eves beamed. Out of this dream she says, "I must be
there on the 14th."
" On the 14th—what then, Miss
Josephine?" She laughed lowly, recalled to herself.
" On the 14th—on the 14th—ah,
Monsieur Raynal, on the 14th the die must be cast."
He regarded her with a puzzled
air. A moment ago a tender, sorrowful thing, all tears and regrets; now a
smiling sprite, dealing in riddles.
What did she mean? he smilingly
"Only that the 14th—the 14th of
February, Monsieur, is St. Valentine's day, and I must be home to keep a
promise—a St. Valentine promise;" and she laughed again her little low laugh,
out of the folds of her lace shawl, into which she had dropped her face.
Livingston Raynal was possessed
of keen perceptions. Though almost out of date now—except for boys and girls, or
for some merry jest-he knew well enough what the day signified, and quickly
guessed the nature of her promise. Going deeper still, he read the "Yes" and
"No" swinging in the balance. "Yes" and " No"—which should it be? If he asked
himself this question, he answered it as speedily, and it would seem
satisfactorily; for a new look of animation came into his face in a moment.
In this Paris life, if the girl
before him had learned to know him better, so, too, had his knowledge of her
deepened. He saw her here fond of splendor and fashion and show; fond of
flattery and power and position. It would be hard to give them up. Could she be
willing to go back to the old life—and, further yet, end it all by becoming the
wife of a captain in the navy, with little more than his pay for an income?
Perhaps Mr. Raynal asked himself
these questions also, for he was no stranger to the poor naval captain who had
"hung round" Miss Josephine Carey for the past two years. And perhaps, if he
asks them, he feels very confident that "flattery and power and position," and
Livingston Raynal, may carry the day.
But do not be too hasty in your
conclusions, Monsieur Raynal. Underneath all this love of "flattery and power
and position" may lie something of different texture—something akin to the
nature of that stanch old republican, Commodore Carey.
Ah! no; there is no need of
haste. Monsieur Raynal has plenty of time. His country's call is not for him.
The clubs, the balls, the galleries of art, the play, and all the grand
procession of Paris pleasures, which occupy him, yet leave him time to pursue
still another object. Plenty of time.
Yet he does not delay
unnecessarily. He who can be so agreeable infuses on this evening a more vivid
charm into speech and manner.
Graceful, handsome, and
brilliant, he became the essence of grace and beauty and brilliance; and the
fair little Josephine, sitting opposite, looks and listens and admires! And
listening, she occupies her fingers in some pretty feminine work which is half
play—weaving in and out a lacy mass of fine-spun cotton, for some useless use of
toilet or tray.
Keeping the thread of the
brilliant talk, she at last drops the thread of cotton from its slender chain of
connection. A half-unconscious exclamation, and she goes winding out the blunder
into skeins again. Her companion bends forward and offers his services; and
contrary to the usual custom, in this coquetish co-operation Monsieur imprisons
the hands of Mademoiselle with the countless threads of snow-white cotton.
Round and round he winds the
raveled thread—round and round, meshing the little hands in the soft skeins,
meshing the little heart into subtler skeins of soft-voiced eloquence. Round and
round, until the thread catches against the fretted setting of a jet ring—a jet
ring, diamond-sparkling, on her finger. He leans forward to disentangle, a smile
upon his lips.
"Mademoiselle has established a
picket-guard." "Whereon King Cotton is held in durance vile," she returns.
A blush rises to her cheek in the
pause that follows, as the larger hand delays against the lesser in the process