tled through the
foliage, the robin or the thrush pipes its tremulous note; and where
the menacing shell described its curve through the air, a harmless crow
flies in circles. Season after season the gentle work goes on, healing
the wounds and rents made by the merciless enginery of war, until at
last the once hotly contested battleground differs from none of its
quiet surroundings, except, perhaps, that here the flowers take a richer
tint and the grasses a deeper emerald.

It is thus the battle lines may be obliterated by Time, but there are
left other and more lasting relics of the struggle. That dinted army
sabre, with a bit of faded crepe knotted at its hilt, which hangs over
the mantel-piece of the "best room" of many a town and country house
in these States, is one; and the graven headstone of the fallen hero
is another. The old swords will be treasured and handed down from
generation to generation as priceless heirlooms, and with them, let us
trust, will be cherished the custom of dressing with annual flowers the
resting-places of those who fell during the Civil War.

With the tears a Land hath shed
Their graves should ever be green.

Ever their fair, true glory
Fondly should fame rehearse--
Light of legend and story,
Flower of marble and verse.

The impulse which led us to set apart a day for decorating the graves of
our soldiers sprung from the grieved heart of the nation, and in our
own time there is little chance of the rite being neglected. But the
generations that come after us should not allow the observance to fall
into disuse. What with us is an expression of fresh love and sorrow,
should be with them an acknowledgment of an incalculable debt.

Decoration Day is the most beautiful of our national holidays. How
different from those sullen batteries which used to go rumbling through
our streets are the crowds of light carriages, laden with flowers and
greenery, wending their way to the neighboring cemeteries! The grim
cannon have turned into palm branches, and the shell and shrapnel into
peach blooms. There is no hint of war in these gay baggage trains,
except the presence of men in undress uniform, and perhaps here and
there an empty sleeve to remind one of what has been. Year by year that
empty sleeve is less in evidence.

The observance of Decoration Day is unmarked by that disorder and
confusion common enough with our people in their holiday moods. The
earlier sor