or all that was left of it. But what a gaze! In the tortured fastness of his heart Adam knew that he had never looked on it as did this man. He had failed, trembled, tried to draw his eyes away where he could not see its tingling red, its unsullied blue, its accusing stars that gazed down on him and saw only a dastard. But this man! His glance was a menace, his look burnt with the hatred of one whose hand is forever set against the insignia of law and loyalty. Adam had heard of men of this kind. Some of them had even tried to draw him, poor failure that he was, into their ranks, but he had been too timid to join them. To-day, however, he was a soldier, a Zouave, a guard of honor, a defender of the flag against just such enemies as these.

The ceremonies were drawing to a close. The silent heroes in blue and gray had had their measure of praise meted out to them, when a bugler stepped forward and played the first bar of the "Star Spangled Banner." There was a shout, a sudden concerted movement of the crowd to get a little nearer the bugler, as the long notes rang out. From his higher place Adam saw the man whom he had been watching push his way to the edge of the crowd, directly facing the flag. His face was darker than ever, with an immeasurable hatred. He sneered as he looked at the Zouaves standing gaunt and rugged about the great monument that had been raised to the memory of their brothers. The people were singing now. The man laughed. Above the voice of palpitating youth and earnest age Adam heard it, and clenched his hand at his side. What did this man mean to do? Such wild

ness, such enmity, would not go unsatisfied. The man's hand went to his pocket. Adam stood tense, watching his every movement. Again the man looked at the flag-the flag that was almost shot away, the flag that perhaps the man argued had been carried aloft on the battlefield at a frightful and needless cost, while a calm government sat back and said, “Let the slaughter go on." Was that, questioned Adam, that the man was thinking? Adam took a step nearer the standard-bearer, whose dim eyes were ignorant of danger. Adam seemed to feel in some intuitive way what this poor, frantic creature below meant to do. But he must not be allowed to do it-he must not! Those smoky, stained old shreds of silk must not feel a wound from the hand of a disloyal son.

The man's arm shot out. Something gleamed in the sunshine, something sang in the air above the words "in triumph shall wave," and an old Zouave stumbled and fell forward upon the white stones.

The wild disorder of a moment was soon quelled. A line of red-capped soldiers were drawn around the base of the monument. A little group moved toward the standard-bearer, who stood looking down at the prostrate figure at his feet, not forgetting that he was still on duty.

The commander of the post stooped over the fallen man and lifted his head. The man was a stranger to him. He looked at a Zouave standing near, silently questioning him.

"He pushed in front of Peterson, sir, just as that scoundrel fired. He tried to grasp the flag, sir. I guess he saw what the fellow aimed at."

Still the commander looked at the speaker, the man who had marched all the way beside Adam.

"Who is he?" continued the officer. "And what is he doing here? He is not one of my men."

The old Zouave took his ragged cap from his head. "He was Dan Roth's brother. We have all heard of him-he was the boy who wouldn't join in '61. But to-day he-he-"

The old man knelt down beside Adam. Just below the dim stain on the shoulder of Dan's jacket, the stain which marked that day at Alexandria, there was a new, fresh one. The heart that lay beneath it was at peace.

MEMORIAL DAY 1898

The days are dead of bitter fray, of red despair and black distress;

The blessed years speed on their way, the years that bring forgetfulness.

Awhile the livid scars we note of biting sword and rending shot,

Awhile there rises in the throat the sob for those who heed

it not;

Awhile the remnant still we see that lessens with the seasons' round,

And then-how long till they and we are unremembered, underground?

Lights out! The tragedy is done; the curtain falls; the play

ers cease

Their warlike parts, and here begun behold the Passion-Play

of Peace!

Reveille sound! New pageants come; new war-worn knights

are marching home:

With trumpets' blare and roll of drums, a triumph 'tis of ancient Rome.

Yet surely 'tis a little thing and meet to do, so, while we

may,

Let us bow down remembering a Mother mourns her lost to-day.

What though the word from Eastern isles tells that her newest ministers

Have won fresh battles? Tho' she smiles on those, these too-these too are hers!

Here at the revel's highest tide, before the conquered over

seas,

She pauses, pale, to turn aside and cast one flower more for these.

Yea, all are hers-and what a host! Through half the world they mark her way,

Or bleaching on the China coast, or torn and toss'd in Southern bay.

326

On many a scattered field they lie, from lonely heights call out to her,

In alien waters glad to die, the sea their shifting sepulchre. We smile again in peace to greet the servient savage, hold our head

Above the clouds of dawn-our feet trampling upon our brothers, dead!

My country, hark! On every hand thou seest thy work and find'st it good

No, Goddess, no: each inch of land bought with a fallen soldier's blood!

The lover, father, brother, son, have ransomed thee through all the years;

Wan boys have paid thy martyrdom, thy smile is bought with women's tears.

Listen, my Mother, 'tis the mouth thy bursting breasts have ever fed,

From East and West, from North and South:

our dead! Give back our dead!"

"Give back

Nay, peace! They would not bring thee pain, howe'er their wildest woe be heard:

And when thou needest lives again, their hearts are readysay the word.

Gladly we heap the sacrifice, but though we serve unmurmuringly,

Remember, Freedom is our price, since men must die that men be free;

That is thy pledge, by peace or war, to those who sleep upon the ground

Their blood had bought from shore to shore, until the last reveille sound.

REGINALD WRIGHT KAUFFMAN.

THE END