THE HALF-MASTED FLAG.

T is well for us to keep in mind not only the birthdays of the
men who have done great deeds for their country, but on
certain occasions also their deathdays. Thus,
Thus, the one

hundredth anniversary of the death of George Washington was observed on December 14, 1899, in many places, by many people. At such a time, the flag is not raised clear to the top of the pole or "mast," but about half-way,—and so we get the words, "the flag at half-mast," as a symbol of the sorrow of the true patriots for a great soldier and statesman dying long ago (like Washington), or perhaps for one just fallen out from the ranks of the living, like that brave sailor, Lieut. Brumby (died December 17, 1899), the flag lieutenant of Admiral Dewey. This heroic officer and faithful friend of the Admiral stood by him in the great naval fight at Manila. Daring and devoted as he was, why should not the flags throughout his native State of Georgia be placed at halfmast, and his fellow-citizens recall and record his bravery and patriotism?

So it is by keeping in remembrance the brave deeds of those patriots who have died—by telling over again and again the story of their loyalty - by visiting the places made famous by them,— by all these things and in many other ways, that children even may learn many a lesson in true patriotism; and the half-masted flag teaches the lesson.

SELECTIONS.

HOW SLEEP THE BRAVE!

How sleep the brave, who sink to rest,
With all their country's wishes blest!
When Spring, with dewy fingers cold,
Returns to deck their hallowed mould,

She there shall dress a sweeter sod
Than Fancy's feet have ever trod.

:

By fairy hands their knell is rung;
By forms unseen their dirge is sung;
There Honor comes, a pilgrim gray
To bless the turf that wraps their clay;
And Freedom shall awhile repair,
To dwell a weeping hermit there.

- William Collins.

The past rises before me like a dream. Again we are in the great struggle for national life. We hear the sounds of preparation, the music of the boisterous drums, the silvery voices of heroic bugles. We see thousands of assemblages, and hear the appeals of orators; we see the pale cheeks of women, and the flushed faces of men, and in those assemblages we see all the dead whose dust we have covered with flowers. We lose sight of them no more. * * * We see them all as they march proudly away under the flaunting flags, keeping time to the wild, grand music of war, marching down the streets of the great cities, through the towns and across the prairies down to the fields of glory, to do and to die for the eternal right. We go with them one and all. We are by their side on all the gory fields, in all the hospitals of pain, on all the weary marches. We stand guard with them in the wild storm and under the quiet stars. We are with them in ravines running with blood, in the furrows of old fields. We are with them between contending hosts, unable to move, wild with thirst, the life ebbing slowly away among the withered leaves. We see them pierced by balls and torn with shells in the trenches by forts, and in the whirlwind of the charge, where men become iron, with nerves of steel. We are at home when the news comes that they are dead. We see the maiden in the shadow of her first sorrow. We see the silvered head of the old man bowed with the last grief. These heroes are dead. They died for liberty. They died for us. They are at rest. They sleep in the land they made free, under the flag they rendered stainless, under the solemn pines, the sad hemlocks, the tearful willows, and the embracing vines. They sleep beneath the shadows of the clouds, careless alike of sunshine or of storm, each in the windowless palace of rest. Earth may run red with other wars; they are at peace. In the midst of battle, in the roar of conflict, they found the serenity of death. I have one sentiment for the soldiers living and dead: Cheers for the living, and tears for the dead.— Robert G. Ingersoll.

THE PHANTOM ARMY.

And I saw a phantom army come,
With never a sound of fife or drum,
But keeping step to a muffled hum

Of wailing lamentation;

The martyred heroes of Malvern Hill,

Of Gettysburg and Chancellorsville,

The men whose wasted bodies fill

The patriot graves of the nation.

And there came the unknown dead, the men Who died in fever-swamp and fen,

The slowly starved of prison pen;

And marching beside the others, Came the dusky martyrs of Pillow's fight, With limbs enfranchised and hearing bright, I thought 'twas the pale moonlightThey looked as white as their brothers.

And so all night marched the nation's dead,
With never a banner above them spread,
No sign, save the bare, uncovered head
Of the silent, grim Reviewer;

With never an arch but the vaulted sky,
With not a flower save those which lie
On distant graves, for love could buy
No gift that was purer or truer.

So all night long moved the strange array,
So all night long till the break of day
I watched for one who had passed away

With a reverent awe and wonder;

Till a blue cap waved in the lengthening line, And I knew that one who was kin of mine Had come, and I spoke - and lo! that sign Wakened me from my slumber.

THE BIVOUAC OF THE DEAD.

The muffled drum's sad roll has beat
The soldier's last tattoo;

No more on Life's parade shall meet
That brave and fallen few.

On Fame's eternal camping ground
Their silent tents are spread,

And Glory guards with solemn round,

The bivouac of the dead.

Thus 'neath their parent turf, they rest,

Far from the gory field,

Borne to a Spartan mother's breast

On many a bloody shield.

The sunshine of their native sky

Smiles sadly on them here,

And kindred eyes and hearts watch by

The heroes' sepulchre.

Rest on, embalmed and sainted dead;

Dear is the blood you gave.

No impious footsteps here shall tread
The herbage of your grave.

Nor shall your glory be forgot

While Fame her record keeps,

Or Honor points the hallowed spot
Where Valor proudly sleeps.

[It was a Southern soldier, Theodore O'Hara, of Kentucky, who wrote the immortal lines above since cast in bronze, and placed in the national cemeteries where lie the soldiers who fell for the Union. This refers to last stanza only.]

DIRGE FOR A SOLDIER.

Close his eyes; his work is done!
What to him is friend or foeman,

Rise of moon or set of sun,

Hand of man or kiss of woman?

Lay him low, lay him low,

In the clover or the snow!
What cares he? He cannot know;

Lay him low.