File:Stories of the civil war (1890) (14739709286).jpg

Identifier: storiesofcivilwa01blai (find matches)
Title: Stories of the civil war
Year: 1890 (1890s)
Authors: Blaisdell, Albert F. (Albert Franklin), 1847-1927
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Publisher: Boston, Lee and Shepard: New York, C.T. Dillingham
Contributing Library: The Library of Congress
Digitizing Sponsor: Sloan Foundation

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public. The beautiful and pathetic ceremoniesof the day are now celebrated in every nook and cornerof our broad land. It is exceedingly appropriate thatschool children should collect the flowers, sing theirbeautiful songs, and decorate the graves of the heroicdead. It will remind them in the most impressive man-ner how their fathers and grandfathers fought the bat-tles of their country. A number of years ago, a famous orator, and abrave officer during the war, was called upon to addressthe veteran soldiers on Memorial Day in Indianapolis.The following eloquent passage from his oration canbe read and re-read many times, and one will not tire ofit. Its stirring patriotism is only exceeded by its ten-der pathos and vivid imagery. The past rises before me like a dream. Again weare in the great struggle for national life. We hear thesounds of preparation — the music of the boisterousdrums — the silver voices of heroic bugles. We seethousands of assemblages, and hear the appeals of ora-
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MEMORIAL DAY 239 tors ; we see the pale cheeks of women, and the flushedfaces of men; and in those assemblages we see all thedead whose dust we have covered with flowers. Welose sight of them no more. We are with them whenthey enlist in the great army of freedom. We seethem part from those they love. Some are walking forthe last time in quiet woody places with the maidensthey adore. We hear the whisperings and the sweetvows of eternal love as they lingeringly part forever.Others are bending over cradles, kissing babies that areasleep. Some are receiving the blessings of old men.Some are parting, who hold them and press them totheir hearts again and again, and say nothing; andsome are talking with wives, and endeavoring withbrave words, spoken in the old tones, to drive from theirhearts the awful fear. We see them part. We seethe wife standing in the door, with the babe in herarms — standing in the sunlight, sobbing — at theturn of the road a hand waves — she answers byholding hi

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