THE HERO OF PICKETT'S OLD BRIGADE

It is the eve before the great battle. The sun is low in the west. A death-like stillness has settled over the two armies-one on Seminary Ridge, the other on Cemetery Hill. It is the Battle of Gettysburg. The fight of the first day is over. The Confederates are hopeful, for Gen. Lee's small army has held in check Gen. Mead's vast forces. The sun goes down, the hush deepens, the armies slumber, the golden stars come out in the violet skies above. They shine down upon the pale, sweet face of a young soldier. The night is sultry, and the youth sleeps on the uncovered ground. The delicate face has the innocence and infantile purity of a baby's holy countenance. All day the dreaming boy has fought with tiger fearlessness, now he sleeps quitely under the watching stars and his weary limbs rest in the careless grace of slumber. Beside the sleeping boy is a strong manly warrior. He does not sleep but guards the resting youth. A thickly foliaged tree shelters them.

This fair young soldier is the man's wife, but their comrades deem the two father and son. Sleep on, weary soldier, take your brief, unconscious rest, tomorrow's night will find you in eternity! The Gettysburg of your life will have been fought, and you and hundreds of your comrades will have pitched your tents on the camp fields of the great beyond. Ah, child-woman! you have no equal in your heroic devotion. The perils of battle are joys when shared with your heart's idol.

With the first dim streak of light that crosses the blood-stained hilltops commences the cannon's boom. The hollow roar echos down the valley between Seminary Ridge and Cemetery Hill, then dies far away like the roll of distant thunder. The great battle of Gettysburg rages in fierce fury. In this battle Pickett and his division make their charge that that renders their names immortal, and gives the historian a chapter of unparalleled heroism. In the fierest shriek and wildest roar of battle, suddenly the cannon's thunder dies over the hilltops, the smoke rolls down the valley, a hush solemn as death falls over the vast armies. A small band in confederate gray goes down the opposite hillside, slowly and calmly. Orderly and straight into the teeth of death they march. They reach the foot of the hill, and are crossing the valley. The silence is yet unbroken. Stern Federal warriors stand awe-stricken, and are thrilled with wonder at sight of this unequalled heroism.

At length the silence is broken. The roar of cannons shake the earth. The boom dies, the smoke clears, and shows a wide gap in the moving wall, but in good order the broken ranks come togather. Steadily the brave immortal Pickett and his men march forward, and again the cannons thunder. The smoke clears away and reveals a wide, wide gap. The ranks move togather again, closing the gap. A long line of their gray-clad comrades crosses the valley behind, and the little band moves unfalteringly forward. The cannons boom again. The smoke clears. A wider gap than ever this time, but once more it is closed, and the heroic few move onward. The hearts of brave Federal soldiers grow sick at such slaughter. At last Pickett and his survivors reach the hill on which is stationed Gen. Mead's great army. Up the steep side they charge, over the breastworks they go, and back goes the Federal army, but it is only for a time. Pickett's division is slaughtered charging the vast Federal army.

In that charge a flag-bearer in the Confederate ranks is shot. A fair, sweet-faced young soldier raises the old standard. For a moment it floats above the storm of battle. Thick the bayonets gleam, but the youthful hero, with a rigid countenance and unflinching bravery, keeps an eagle eye fixed on the silken banner as it waves in the smoke, A stream of sunlight floods it for a moment, and hallows the gastly upturned face of the girl soldier as she holds aloft the silken emblem. A sword pierces her, and she falls beside her husband. Both surrender life in this wonderful charge.

The world has heard of Gettysburg and its slaughter, but it has never been told the thrilling but sad story of the young wife who fell beside her husband that day when Pickett's immortal division attempted the impossible.

Many months have passed since then. Burning suns and purple skies have kept their silent watch over the spot where the girl-soldier fell.

Again it is sunset. An old man and his little boy walk over the field where once was fought the great battle. The old man had fought in that battle. He shows his child the area over which Pickett's old brigade had charged. He tells the boy of the sweet faced flag-bearer, and searching for the place where the young hero fell they find an old flag. Tattered it is and dropping to pieces. It has been embroidered by the fair hands of Virginia women with their own hair. As the young boy raised it he saw underneath two skulls. Through long silent days and the solemn hush of nights it had been their winding sheet; under burning suns and golden stars it had been their blood-drenched and battle-rent shroud. Digging a hole in the hillside, the Federal veteran wrapped the shulls in the flag and buried them in the calm, sweet hour of the sunset stillness. He had lost two sons in that battle. They had fallen repulsing Pickett's division, but this evening the bitterness dies in the breast of the old Federal soldier. He stands, and watching the sunset his thoughts drift back to that day when he saw the young girl-hero, calm and serene, with her large blue eyes fixed upon the silken banner, unflinching in the shriek and storm of battle. His sword had pierced her. There was no bitterness in his heart now.

Europe has her Joan of Arc, her Charlotte Corday, America her Mollie Pitcher, but the Confederacy has her sweet girl-hero who fell in the charge of Pickett's men at Gettysburg.