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whole families of negroes; that on several occasions, being surrounded at the moment of embarkation by the local militia, the negroes took the opportunity of escaping to return to their masters, and that then the Yankees turned their fury on the negro children, whom they tore from their mothers' arms and flung into the water. On other occasions they drowned the negroes by wholesale when they resisted the attempt to carry them off.

"The Yankees exercised similar cruelty on the whites. In one detachment of prisoners, of whom a great part were ill of small-pox, caught in the miserable huts in which they had been lodged, they amused themselves with fastening them two and two, a sick man to a healthy one, to spread the disease; and then, when the disease reached its height, they would throw them overboard with loud cheers."

A Disinterested Patriot.—A Boston journal, quoting the allusion of another paper to the fact that Mr. Whiting, Solicitor of the War Department, worked without pay, says:

The statement that." Mr. Whiting is a rich man, and can afford to do all he has magnanimously agreed to," somewhat detracts from the merit of the sacrifice he has actually made. We happen to know that upon entering the service of the Government he was compelled to reduce his establishment here, which had been supported by a princely income from his profession, and practise the economy which many wealthy men who claim to be patriots only preach.

How Tiie Rebels Brand.—Branding deserters, as performed at Castle Thunder in Richmond, is described as a beautiful operation, and as humane as beautiful. The culprit is fastened to a large table, with his face downward, and a large " D" scarred on his posteriors. A plain bar of iron, about an inch in diameter, narrowed down a little at the point, is heated to incandescence, and used as a sign-painter would use his brush in lettering, only in a very slow and bungling manner. A greasy smoke with a sickly stench arises, accompanied with crackling sounds and the groans of the victim as the hot iron sinks deep into the flesh. On pretence of rendering the mark of disgrace plain and indelible, but in reality to torture the unfortunate culprit, the hot iron is drawn many times through the wound, making it larger and deeper, until the victim, unable to endure the excruciation longer, faints, and is carried away. The operation is always performed by old Keppard, the executioner of Kellogg, the greatest demon in human form outside of Pluto's realms.— Louuville Journal, January 12.

Concerning "yanxs."

The following letter appeared in a number of the Charleston Courier: "To the Editor* of the Charleston Courier:

"I agree with you in the main in the remarks you make in your issue of the fourteenth, in relation to your use of the terms 'Yankee' and 'Yankeedom.' But as we ought to have a descriptive designation of that people that can give no offence to the many worthy and true men amongst us of Yankee birth, I propose that we as a people adopt the term ' Yank' for our insane enemies; so that we may talk of the' Yank Government,' ' Yank army,' ' Yank Congress,' ' Yank news,' etc., etc. It is short, contemptuous, and deBCriptive of the thing signified.

"I am sorry to see you fall into the mistake of calling Yanks 'Federals,' and of talking of 'Northern news.' Northern and Southern are very well, as allusive to different sections of our Confederacy, or one country; but they are expressions calculated to mblead when applied to countries so entirely distinct as our Confederacy and the ' Yank country.' Let, then, the term ' Yank' be applied to that seething ma?s of Vandalism that blindly drives forward for our subjugation, utterly ignoring the principles of the government formerly established over them, and utterly regardless of those grand landmarks with which alone all good practical popular governments can consist. Let it be 1 Yank States,' ' Yank people,' ' Yank navy,' etc, etc., 'Yank flag,' etc., etc., 'a Yank,' ' Yanks,' etc., etc.

"Z."

Barbarities Of The Rebels.—A correspondent of the Chattanooga Oazettt furnished the following horrible account of rebel cruelties practised upon an Alabama Unionist:

In 1861 a Unionist was forcibly arrested by a mob at his house in Randolph county, Ala., and marched off in an adjoining thicket; the mob here rifled him of his pocket-book, boots and coat, tied him, and held a consultation to determine his fate. It was soon determined to " put him in the tories' yoke," but first of all to try to make him acknowledge to having done and said things of which he was innocent.

After trying some time to accomplish their object, by questioning and threatening, they resorted to more severe measures. Untying him, they took off his clothing, laid him down upon a log, lashed him firmly to it, and with large hickory switches commenced lacerating him. Four let in on him at once, and the number soon increased to six. They continued to beat him there for a long time, pausing occasionally and asking him if he would confess, and upon his refusing would let in on him more vigorously.

The blood trickled from his back in streams. Bis piteous appeals in behalf of mercy were totally disregarded. Nature finally yielded, and the poor man swooned and was lost to consciousness for several minutes. As soon as he revived, these hellish tormentors resumed their tortures. They split the ends of green sticks, and twisting them in his hair, and pulling violently caused the most excruciating pain. This and other fiendish operations were continued for some time. They then cut off his fingers at the second joint, as also his ears, close up to his head.

The next step was to cut off his arms at the elbows, and the legs at the knees. After this operation the wretched victim fainted, and failing to recover for several minutes, the murderers pronounced him dead and began to prepare to leave, but at this moment their victim showed signs of life.

They now tied a rope around his neck, and hung him to' a limb near by, and instantly decamped, leaving him suspended between the heavens and the earth.

The third day afterward the body was discovered, taken down, and decently interred by friends.

Mr. Editor, this no myth, 'tis no exaggeration. It is worthy of remark that it is an impossibility to belie a rebel, unless you say he is honest, a gentleman, or a humane being.

At the time of the above murder I was engaged in school-teaching in Calhoun county, not more than twenty-five miles from the murdered man's house, and I took considerable pains to find out all about the matter. You have the result. Scout.

Sherman's Flan* Movements.—General Sherman's strategy in flanking the rebels out of their strong positions, puzzles the natives a good deal. A young woman said it was not fair to fight the Southern soldiers "on end." She then went on to say that the day before General Bragg had formed "two ttreakt of fight" in their door-yard with "walking soldiert" and General Wheeler formed "one ttreak of fight with critter toldiert"—meaning cavalry—behind the house, but that Joe Hooker had come up and flanked Bragg, and made him fall back, which he did in such a hurry, that he " upset dad's ash-hopper plant," which cost two dollars and fifty cents in Atlanta; and " dad was a-goin' to sue Bragg/or watte." This a fair specimen of the way these poor people think and talk. They do not generally display half the intelligence the ■laves do.

THE DRUMMER-BOY OF THE EIGHTH MICHIGAN
INFANTRT.

Charles Howard Gardner was a scbool-boy thirteen and a half years old, in the city of Flint, Michigan, when the war commenced. His father was connected with a military organization of long standing, and under the first call for seventy-five thousand troops, immediately left for the defence of the national capital. Soon there came a second call for three hundred thousand more, when Charlie's teacher, S. C. Guild, a most exemplary young man, soon to enter the ministry, joined the army. Between Charlie and him there existed a very ardent attachment, and Captain Guild seconded Charlie's earnest entreaties that he might go with him as a drummer. He had been famous from his babyhood for his musical ability, and had acquired a good deal of merited notoriety for his skilful handling of the drumsticks. "If I can go to the war with my drum, and thus take the place of a man who can handle a musket," was Charlie's persistent plea, "I think it is my duty to go, especially as you, mother, do not greatly need me at home." So, reluctantly, the poor mother, who had surrendered her husband, consented that her boy should join the Eighth Michigan infantry.

The regiment was ordered to Port Royal, and on their way thither, Charlie met his father in Washington. As they were returning from the Navy-yard where they had been for their arms, he saw his father a little way off, and forgetting military rule, he broke from the ranks, and with child-like joy ran to his father's arms. It was their last earthly meeting, as the November following Mr. Gardner died of typhoid fever at Alexandria. Charlie's letters to his mother after this bereavement, written from Port Royal, are exceedingly touching, and remarkably thoughtful for a boy not yet fourteen. "I am near broken-hearted," he writes: "I try to be cheerful, but it is of no use, my mind continually runs in the direction of home, a fresh gush of tears comes to my eyes, and I have to weep. But, mother, if this is so bard for me, what must it be for you? Don't take it too much to heart, for remember that you have me left, and I will do my best to help you. I shall send you all my money hereafter, for I do not really need money here."

This promise he fulfilled to the letter. Always cheerful, he was a great favorite with the officers and men, for whom he never did a favor, but they would compel him to receive some small compensation in return. These small gains he carefully husbanded, and increased them by peddling papers and periodicals, making enough for his little extra expenses, and inva

riably, on every pay-day, he sent his money to his widowed mother. None of the vices of the camp clung to him, and amid the profane and drunken and vulgar, he moved, without assoiling the whiteness of his young soul. His teacher and Captain guarded him like a father; he shared his bed and board with Charlie, and the two loved one another with an affection so unusual that it was everywhere the subject of comment.

By and by we hear of the fearless little fellow, small beyond his years, on the battle-field with the surgeon, where the grape and canister were falling like hail around them, pressing forward to the front, during an engagement, with the hospital flag in his hand, to aid in the care of the wounded. Only a peremptory order from a superior officer was able to turn him back to the rear, and there, when the wounded were brought in, he worked all night, and the next day, carrying water and bandages and lint, and lighting up the sorrowfulness of the hour by his boyish but unfailing kindness. Never was he more serviceable than during a battle. At the terrible battle of James's Island, in an assault on the fort, his beloved Captain, always foremost in the fight, had climbed to the parapet of the fort, when a shot struck him, and he fell backward, and was seen no more. Now was Charlie indeed bereaved—his teacher, captain, friend, father, lover, dead on the battle-field, and even the poor satisfaction denied his friends of burying his remains. His letters after this event, are one long wail of sorrow— he could not be comforted—and yet, always thoughtful for others, he writes: "Oh I how I pity hie poor mother I"

Months passed, and the Eighth Michigan was ordered to Vicksburgh to reinforce Grant, who had beleaguered that doomed city. Battle after battle ensued—nineteen of them—in all of which Charlie more or less participated, often escaping death as by a miracle. Something of the fierce life led by this regiment may be inferred from the fact that one thousand six hundred and fifty-three men have enlisted in it since it first took the field; of these, only four hundred survive to-day, all but eight of whom have just reenlisted. Through all battles, all marches, all reconnoissances, all campaigns, Charlie kept with the regiment, crossing the mountains with them to Knoxville, in Burns'nle's corps, on rations of three ears of corn per day, and then for weeks shut up in that city, besieged by Longstreet's force, and subsisting on quarter-rations. Yet not one word of complaint ever came from the patriot boy, not one word of regret, only an earnest desire to remain in the service till the end of the war. At last, there came a letter from the surgeon. During the siege of Knoxville, Charlie had been wounded for the first time. A chance shot that passed through the window of the house in which he was, struck him on the shoulder, and entered the lung. "He has been in a very dangerous condition," wrote the surgeon, "but he is now fast recovering. He is a universal pet, and is well cared for in the officers' quarters." The next tidings were more joyful. The regiment were on their way to Detroit, on a thirty days' furlough, and would remain to recruit. Now the telegraph notified those interested that they were in Louisville—then in Indianapolis—in Michigan City—at last in Detroit.

With a happy heart the good mother telegraphed to have her boy sent to Chicago as soon as possible, and then she watched the arrival of the trains. "He will be here to-night—he will be here to-morrow "—she said, and every summons to the door she was sure . was her Charlie. Every thing was in readiness for the

darling—his room—his clothes—the supper-table set with the luxuries he loved—and there sat mother, sister, and brother, waiting for him. A knock at the door—all start—all rush—'tis Charlie! No, on a telegram. God help the poor broken hearts, as they read it—" The regiment hat arrived, but Charlie it dead!" And this was all.

OUR COUNTRY'S CAUSE.

BY MRS. U. J. It. SWEAT.

War's cruel ploughshare cleaves the land,

In furrows wide and deep; Eacli furrow is a hallowed grave,

Where our loved heroes sleep.
But costly seed we're planting now,

In weariness and pain,
Shall, at the harvest-time, bring forth

Fair fields of priceless grain.

Our hearts are saddened by the sight

Of sick and wounded men;
It seems as if God's summer air

Could ne'er be pure again.
But side by side with war's dark sins

Man's noblest virtues shine,
And woman's sweet compassion beams

With lustre half divine.

Sweet mother earth, with tender care,

Covers her wounds with flowers, And we would learn her loving art

For these deep wounds of ours.
For though our tears fall sadly now,

They, like the summer rain,
May bring rich blessings for the time

When sunshine comes again.

Only for thee, dear native land,

Could we thus bear our woe;
Only for thee, see, day by day,

Our brave men thus laid low.
But though our griefs must inly bleed

Through many a coming year,
Each sorrow makes our country's cause

To patriot hearts more dear.

OUR FLAG IN '64.

T D. BETHUNE DUrPIItD.

Fling, fling our banner out,
With loyal song and shout,
O'er every home and hill,
By each deep valley's mill;
And let its heaven-lit beam
Round every hearthstone gleam,
And fill the passing hour—
This pregnant, fateful hour—
With all its stirring voices
And the thunder of its power.

The foe is striking hard;
But in the castle-yard
Uprise fresh traitor bands
To snatch from out our hands,
From fortress and from sea,
This banner of the free,

To give it coward flight,
That anarchy's dark night,

With all its muttering thunders, May swallow up its light

Ay! when our soldiers brave,
On bloody field and wave,
Sprang forth with deadly stroke
Through battle's blazing smoke
Our standard to uphold,
And save its every fold,
These home-born traitors cry,
"Ood grant no victory!"

Though scores of gallant heroes Round the old flag bravely die.

Rise, then, each loyal man,
Your home horizon scan,
And plant the nation's flag
On hill-side and on crag;
And let your swelling soul
In earnest tones outroll
That brave resolve of old,
When our fathers, true and bold,

Swore a fealty to the flag
Which never once grew cold.

The flag, the flag bends low,
For whirlwinds round it blow,
And wild, chaotic night
Is veiling it from sight.
So let us every one,
While yet the winds rage on,
Cling round the straining mast
And hold the banner fast,

Till stormy treason's rage
Be safely overpast.

DEAD—EN BIVOUAC.

BT CAPTAIK QKORGR P. BCRSriAlf, V. S. A.

During the advance of the array of the Potomac south of the Rapidan, on those very cold nights the troops and guards Buffered terribly. Several had limbs frost-bitten, and one man, in the Second corps, frose to death while on picket duty.—Telegraph despatch, in December to New-York papers.

By the margin of the river,

'Midst the plunging snow and sleet,

On the picket-post they shiver,
As they pace their lonely beat!

Of the loved ones (calmly sleeping
Safe from cold, alarm, or fight)

They are thinking, whilst they're keeping
"Watch-in-watch" this bitter night

Near the Rapid Ann we rested—

After weeks and months of toil—
(Faith and valor meanwhile tested!)

On Virginia's "sacred " soil.
By the lonely weird camp-fire,

Hard upon the foeman's track,
'Mid the gloom and dampness dire

We lay down—en bivouac.

"All is well!" the sentry uttered,

Far away upon the right;
"All is well!" the centre muttered—

Then the left "Twas dead of night
Still the storm was fiercely raging;

Biting blasts came down the vale;

And the elements were waging
Ruthless war—amid that gale.

But the sentinels kept pacing—
Pacing—up and down their track;

While the storm-king still kept tracing
Snowy ridges—front and back.

Ah! that air was deathly frigid,
And the sleet came tempest-tost!

But the orders out were rigid—

"Not a man must quit his post."

For, in front, (we'd had the warning,)

Massed, in force, the rebels lay, Yet we looked tot—prayed for morning,

Though 't should prove our final day! Hours passed One watcher, weary—

Faltered, halted, breathed a moan; Then, amidst the darkness dreary,

Failed—and sank to earth, alone.

When the gray light broke, at dawning,

Calm, beneath a friendly tree— Blanched, and still, lay Harry Corning I

Sleeping on his pout—was he? Surely, no I A soldier braver

Never met or charged the foe. Such true hearts are few! And never

Could lie fail in duty so.

"Forward /" came the word. We lifted

Quickly up his stiffened form, Bound it wreaths of snow had drifted,

But his heart no more was warm. He had frozen, dead—on picket

Dreadful fate was this, alack! And we laid him 'neath the thicket,

Where he died— en bivouac.

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THE AFRICAN COLOR-SERGEANT.

Glares the volcano breath,
Breaks the red sea of death,
From Wagner's yawning hold,
On the besiegers bold.

Twice vain the wild attack,
Inch by inch, sadly, slow,
Fights the torn remnant back,
Face to the foe.

Yet free the colors wave,
Borne by yon Afric brave,
In the fierce storm wind higher;
But, ah! one flashing fire:

He sinks! the banner falls

From the faint, mangled limb,
And droop to mocking walla
Those star-folds dim.

Stay, stay, the taunting laugh!
See 1 now he lifts the stall',
Clenched in his close-set teeth,
Crawls from dead heaps beneath,
Crowned with his starry robe.
Till he the ranks has found:
"Comrades, the dear old flag
Ne'er touched the ground."

0 dead so pure, so grand,
Sydney might clasp thy hand 1

0 brother! black thy skin, But white the pearl within! Han, who to lift thy race

Worthy, thrice worthy art, Clasps thee, in warm embrace. A nation's heart!

RELIEVING GUARD—March 4, 1864.

BY THANK BRBL HAUTE.

Came the relief. "What, sentry ho!

How passed the night through thy long waking?" "Cold, cheerless, dark—as may befit

The hour before the dawn is breaking."

"No sight? no sound?" "No; nothing, save
The plover from the marshes calling;
And in yon western sky, about
An hour ago, a star was falling."

"A star? There's nothing strange in that"
"No, nothing; but above the thicket
Somehow it seemed to me that God
Somewhere had just relieved a picket!"

THE REFUGEES.

By the mountain springs of the Cumberland,

Under the leafless trees,
With faces lit by the midnight brand,
And hand close clasped in trembling hand,

Sat the hundred refugees.

A woman, one with untimely frost

Creeping along her hair;
And a boy whose sunny locks had lost
Small store of the gold of childhood, tossed

By a mother's kisses there.

The clouds hung thick on the mountain's brow,

And the stars were veiled in gloom, And the gorges around were white with snow, But below was the prowling, cruel foe, And the light of a burning home.

"Mother, the wind is cold to-night," Said the boy in childhood's tone;

"But oh! I hope in the morning's light, That the Union lines will come in sight, And the snow will soon be gone.

"I am very weary, mother dear,

With the long, long walk to-day. But the enemy cannot find us here, And I shall slumber without a fear

Till the night has passed away.

"So tell me now, ere I sleep once more,

The message that father gave
To his comrades for you and me before
The glorious fight on the river's shore

That made a soldier's grave."

Then the mother told, with tearless eye, The solemn words again: "Tell her I shall see her standing by, When the calm comes on of the time to die, And the wounds have lost their pain.

"And teach my boy for ever to hold In his heart all things above—

The wealth of all earth's unbounded gold,
Or life with its sweet, sad joys untold—
The worth of a patriot's love."

As his blood the message quicker stirred
The boy's bright arteries through—
"I well remember every word,"
He said ; " and the angeb, who must have heard,
They will remember too."

Then clasped as a mother clasps who stands

Alone between love and death, Unfelt where the spectral chilly hands That softly tighten the soothing bands

Over the failing breath.

Mother and child, as the fire burned low,

Slept on the earth's cold breast; The night passed by, and the morning slow Broke the veil of cloud o'er the stainless snow,

Bnt never their perfect rest

THE DOG OF THE REGIMENT.

"If I were a poet, like you, my friend,"

Said a bronzed old sergeant, speaking to me,
"I would make a rhyme of this mastiff here;
For a right good Union dog is he.
Although he was born on 'secesh' soil,

And his master fought in the rebel ranks.
If you'll do it, I'll tell you his history,

And give you in pay, why—a soldier's thanks.

"Well, the way we came across him was this:

We were on the march, and 'twas getting late When we reached a-farm-house, deserted by all

Save this mastiff here, who stood at the gate. Thin and gaunt as a wolf was he,

And a piteous whine he gave 'twixt the bars; But, bless you! if he didn't jump for joy

When he saw our flag with the Stripes and Stars.

"Next day, when we started again on the march,

With us went Jack, without word or call; Stopping for rest at the order to 'halt,'

And taking his rations along with us all, Never straggling, but keeping his place in line,

Far to the right, and close beside me; And I don't care where the other is found,

There never was better drilled dog than he.

"He always went with us into the fight,

And the thicker the bullets fell around, And the louder the rattling musketry rolled,

Louder and fiercer his bark would sound; And once when wounded, and left for dead,

After a bloody and desperate fight, Poor Jack, as faithful as friend can be,

Lay by my side on the field all night.

"And so when our regiment home returned,

We brought him along with us, as you see; And Jack and I being much attached,

The boys seemed to think he belonged to me. And here he has lived with me ever since';

Right pleased with his quarters, too, he seems. There are no more battles for brave old Jack,

And no more marches except in dreams.

"But the best of all times for the old dog is When the thunder mutters along the sky,

Then he wakes the echoes around with his bark.

Thinking the enemy surely is nigh. Now I've told you his history, write him a rhyme —

Some day poor Jack in his grave must rest— And of all the rhymes of this cruel war

Which your brain has made, let his be the beat."

THE VETERAN VOLUNTEERS.

BY H. C. BALLARD.

Our hope and faith arc cheered anew;

Our hearts are strong once more. The brave and warworn men in blue,

Tried in the conflict's roar, Now rally at the Nation's call

With purpose true and brave, The dear old banner shall not fall

Their comrades died to save 1

Bold heroes of the mighty North!

No doubts our hearts can chill;
Ye bear the hopes of millions forth,

And execute their will;
No terrors check, no dangers daunt

The men of many scars,
Who go o'er all the land to plant

The banner of the stars!

The East and West, the border lands,

Join in one loyal song,
With willing hearts and ready hands

They bear the flag along;
They see the mounds where comrade braves

Sleep by each river's side,
No flag shall float above their graves

Save that for which they died!

Behold the ranks of iron men,

With faces toward the foe,
Press boldly to the front again

Where only heroes go;
And brave and true, come woe or weal,

They dare the fearful strife,
For on their gleaming lines of steel

They bear the Union's life!

They leave their fireside joys again

For war's destroying blast,
To tread the bloody battle plain,

Where they may sleep at lost;
Yet honor's hand will wreathe with bays

Their brows in coining years;
And unborn millions bless and praise

Our veteran volunteers!

THE STOLEN STARS.

At a dinner, at which were present Major-Genera] Lewi* Wallace, Thomas Buchanan Read, and James E. Murdock, a conversation sprang up respecting ballads for soldiers. The General maintained that hardly one had been written suited for the camp. It was agreed that each of tbem should write on*. The following Is that of General Wallace:

When good old Father Washington

Was just about to die,
He called our Uncle Samuel
Unto his bedside nigh:
"This flag I give you, Sammy dear,"

Said Washington, said he;
"Where'er it floats, on land or wave,
My children shall be free."

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