Little Homespun

parkling and dancing, the new young leaves on the oak trees shimmering and shining with the marvellous green of springtime, and the dear old Virginia homest

e, not to say cranky. But who would blame them for this for a minute? Just as likely as not you and I will be cranky enough ourselves, when we have borne the burden of fourscore years, and are pretty well worn out in mind and spirit and body. But here was an old lady who was not worn out. Her hair was white with “the incomparable whiteness of aged hair,” and there were the indelible marks of age on the sweet, earnest face, but this dear old lady was “

ls, as most children do who find their way into story books, but his hair was golden, and, though cut quite short

nd grandmothers can. In response the little fellow merely pointed to two straps of gold braid up

the gold shoulder-straps, worn in imitation of a captain’s uniform in the army, meant but one thing, and that was that Captain Joe was coming down to carry Brevet-Captain up to Arlington for the

fast. Good-bye, Grannana, take good care of yourself,” and a pair of chubby arms

te and touching his cap deferentially. “I ’spose the little un tol’

he shoulder-straps, and that means he has his orders for the day from his captain, and grandmammas are not expected to ask quest

erythin’, dat he’s a Brevet-Cap’n sure ’nuff when he gets his straps on.” 005"Oh, that’s all right, Joe,”’ answered

g his little blue cap in true soldier-fashion, turned on his heel

’bout bein’ spectful like to yo’ Grandnana, case if you don’ dere’s no tellin’ but any day

, “I could not bear it if you took away my straps,” and h

Arlington fur de day, you des ask yo’ Grandnana’s permission. Yo’re my Brevet-Cap’n sure ’nu

ettled down in his old cabin at Arlington, he was dubbed Captain, in recognition of his gallant services, by all the coloured folk of the neighbourhood. And Joe was by no means unworthy of the honour, for save for the fact that his regiment had been officered by white men, he might easily have risen to the command of a company. Time and time again in the face of the greatest danger he had been notoriously fearless, and had never in a single instance shown the white feather, which is more than can be said for many of his black comrades. And so from th

us togedder, an’ at de same time it’s a very complimentin’ title. It means es how you have it des

be abbreviated to “Brevet” within the home circle. And so Captain Joe and Brevet, having long ago arrived at the most sati

this way and that across the road and coax every growing thing to perfection. Wood-violets, white and yellow and purple, peered out from under the taller growths of fern in the early springtime. June brought the sweet wild rose, unfolding bud after bud well into the summer, and the white berry-blossoms of the briars. With August came the berries themselves, ripening ungathered in riotous profusion, and following close upon them advance heralds of the goldenrod and the asters. It was in very truth a beautiful, dear old road, and it formed a beautiful setting for the little donkey-drawn cart slowly making its way along it. A pretty contrast, too, that of the old negro, still ale

ittle Ala

t been born

in’ a great b

earin’ one

me down to d

and I tumbl

y pick de cot

g

m de song

efest part of a second to

ey, go on,”

song she sung:”

p my little

ll catch i

bosom of yo’ o

to swatch yo

lu-la lu-l

e silver So

h-a-by, Mammy’

ittle Ala

e moment interrupted, and Brevet obeyed, keeping the air perfectly and singing with all his heart, too, as tho

see dat little baby. Seems ter me I neber done hear anythin’ so pretty, anythi

y taught it

y more vers

rry says it’s so ordinary it doesn’t

sweet, catchin’ music an’ I kin des tell yo’, Honey, you done mus’ sing dat song to yo’ ole Cap’n eb’ry time

ntil, high on a hill before them, the pillars of a fine old house came into view, and a few moments later the donkey-cart drew up at a little

en born and bred in these United States of ours, are the true little 012American you really ought to be. But in case you never have been to Arlington, and do not at all know why it should make you feel that you would like to be a soldier, then let me tell you before you have read another single line, that Arlington is the great National Cemetery, lying a few miles out from Washington, and where more than fifteen thousand soldiers lie buried. From the moment you enter the beautiful grounds, you see the low mounds stretching away on every side of you, and when you drive up in front of Arlington House itself, there is brave General Sheridan’s tomb right in front of you, so you