omment, but called special attention to
that of General Grant.

The appearance of General Grant's report was a surprise, which,
however, easily explained itself. On November 22 the President had
received my report. On the 27th General Grant, with the approval of
the President, started on a "tour of inspection through some of the
Southern States" to look after the "disposition of the troops," and
also "to learn, as far as possible, the feelings and intentions of the
citizens of those States toward the general government." On December
12 the Senate asked for the transmission of my report. General Grant's
report was dated the 10th, and on the 17th it was sent to the Senate
together with mine. The inference was easily drawn, and it was
generally believed that this arrangement was devised by President
Johnson to the end of neutralizing the possible effect of my account
of Southern conditions. If so, it was cleverly planned. General Grant
was at that time at the height of his popularity. He was since
Lincoln's death by far the most imposing figure in the popular eye.
Having forced the surrender of the formidable Lee, he was by countless
tongues called "the savior of the Union." His word would go very far
toward carrying conviction. But in this case the discredit which
President Johnson had already incurred proved too heavy for even the
military hero to carry. As to the practical things to be done General
Grant's views were not so very far distinct from mine; but President
Johnson's friends insisted upon representing him as favoring the
immediate restoration of all "the States lately in rebellion" to all
their self-governing functions, and this became the general
impression, probably much against Grant's wish. My report after its
publication as an "executive document" became widely known in the
country. A flood of letters of approval and congratulation poured in
upon me from all parts of the United States.

[Illustration]

THE FLOWER FACTORY

BY FLORENCE WILKINSON

_Lisabetta, Marianina, Fiametta, Teresina,
They are winding stems of roses, one by one, one by one--
Little children who have never learned to play:
Teresina softly crying that her fingers ache to-day,
Tiny Fiametta nodding when the twilight slips in, gray.
High above the clattering street, ambulance and fire-gong beat,
They sit, curling crimson petals, one by one, one by one.

Lisabetta, Marianina, Fiametta, Te