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have risked so much for you. And what grand
women there are in these times, colonel!
What angels of devotion and mercy, and how
brave and plucky!—going everywhere at the
call of duty, facing every danger! I tell you,
if it were not for the women, we should all go
to the devil, and should deserve to. They are
the salvation of the nation. Now, come,
colonel; my carriage is at the door. I'll drive
you to the War Department, and we'll see
Stanton about this matter."

Even at that early hour, they found the
secretary at his post. The president pleaded
the case of Colonel Scott, and not only
requested that leave of absence should be given
him, but that a steamer should be sent down
the river, expressly to bring up the body of his
wife. "Humanity, Mr. Stanton," said the
good president, his homely face transfigured
with the glow of earnest tender feeling,
"humanity should overrule considerations of policy,
and even military necessity, in matters like this."

The secretary was touched, and he said
something of his regret at not having felt himself at
liberty to grant Colonel Scott's request in the
first place.

"No, no, Mr. Stanton," said the president,
"you did right in adhering to your own rules;
you are the right man for this place. If we had
such a soft-hearted old fool as I here, there
would be no rules or regulations that the army
or the country could depend upon. But this is a
peculiar case. Only think of that poor woman!"

Of course, the "impossible" was

To the surprise of the colonel, the president
insisted on driving him to the navy yard, to
see that the secretary's order was carried out
immediately; seeming to have a nervous fear
that some obstacle might be thrown in the
way of the pious expedition. He waited at
the landing till all was ready, then charged the
officers of the steamer to give every attention
and assistance to his "friend, Colonel Scott."
With him he shook hands warmly at parting,
saying, "God bless you, my dear fellow! I
hope you will have no more trouble in this sad
affairand, colonel, try to forget last night."

Away up in a New Hampshire churchyard
there is a certain grave carefully watched and
tended by faithful love. But every April time
the violets on that mound speak not alone of
the womanly sweetness and devotion of her
who sleeps belowthey are tender and tearful
with the memory of the murdered president.


THIS is the old farm-house
   With its deep, rose-tangled porch,
Where hover and rise white butterflies,
   And honey-bees hold debauch.
Oh, many a time and oft
In the dear familiar croft,
   With a lifted eye to the summer sky
I have followed the lark aloft!
   And my heart, my heart, flies back
   On the dead years' shadowy track,
And now in the lane, on a loaded wain,
I'm a happy and hot little boy again!

Just such a windless noon
As this, in a buried June,
   When the scented hay in the meadows lay,
And the thrushes were all in tune,
   On the staggering load I, exultant, rode,
   And the red-faced waggoner "wey'd" and "woa'd'
Long ago in a buried June!

Days when to breathe was bliss,
   Perfect, and pure, and strong;
No pulse of the heart amiss,
   No beat of the brain-work wrong:
When care was a word, and love an absurd
   Fabrication of story and song.

Is it so long ago,
   This life of colour and light?
Will it not show some after-glow
   Ere the day dips into the night?
O youth, have ye left me quite?
O years, have ye dimmed my sight?
   Lo, the light is shade, and the colours fade,
And the day dips into the night.


"WHY are you called Happy Jack?"
I inquired of a very worthy man of my
acquaintance; a man of the people; a
man in a fustian jacket; with good thick
substantial shoes on his feet, a wide-awake
on his head, a blackthorn walking-stick
in his hand, a wallet at his back, and a
short black pipe in his mouth. He slowly
removed his pipe to answer me.

"The people all calls me Happy Jack,"
he said. "It seems to please them, and
doesn't do me any harm. But my name,
as you may have perhaps heerd, is not
Jack, but Giles; and a very good name
too. But Jack somehow or other stands to
being honest and handy; and that's why
they call sailors Jacks, I suppose. And a
Jack-of-all-Trades means a clever chap as
can turn his hand to anything. And when
people calls me Happy Jack, I suppose
they mean it as a compliment. And as the
world goes, I am happy enough. Anyhow
I never complain. I make a pretty fair
living; and I don't mind telling you, that
I've laid by a little bit of money in the
savings bank, and shan't come upon the
union if I grow ever so old and worn out.
The secrets of my happiness are a good
wife, a good appetite, a good conscience,
and a business as I likes and sticks to;
and which, if I were proud, which I
ain't, I might call a perfession. I would
not change it for ne'er another business in
the world."

Hereupon he put his pipe into his mouth
again, drew several whiffs, and meditated.

I knew Giles's business well enough,
and knew also that he took a pleasure in
it; as I took a pleasure sometimes in hearing
him talk about it. Giles, whom I shall
call Happy Jack, as more descriptive of