a part of
the little game they were constantly playing together.

The address opened with these words:

"FELLOW-CITIZENS: We meet this evening not in
sorrow, but gladness of heart. The evacuation
of Petersburg and Richmond, and the surrender
of the principal insurgent army (at Appomattox)
give hope of a righteous and speedy peace whose
joyous expression cannot be restrained. In the
midst of this, however, He from whom all
blessings flow must not be forgotten. A call
for national thanksgiving is being prepared and
will be duly promulgated."

"GIVE US 'DIXIE,' BOYS!"

Then he went on outlining a policy of peace and friendship toward the
South--showing a spirit far higher and more advanced than that of the
listening crowd. On concluding his address and bidding the assembled
multitude good night, he turned to the serenading band and shouted
joyously:

"Give us 'Dixie,' boys; play 'Dixie.' We have a right to that tune now."

There was a moment of silence. Some of the people gasped, as they had
done when they saw Tad waving the Confederate flag at the window. But
the band, loyal even to a mere whim (as they then thought it) of "Father
Abraham," started the long-forbidden tune, and the President, bowing,
retired, with little Tad, within the White House. Those words, "Give us
'Dixie,' boys," were President Lincoln's last public utterance.

As Mr. Lincoln came in through the door after speaking to the crowd,
Mrs. Lincoln--who had been, with a group of friends, looking on from
within--exclaimed to him:

"You must not be so careless. Some one could easily have shot you while
you were speaking there--and you know they are threatening your life!"

The President smiled at his wife, through a look of inexpressible pain
and sadness, and shrugged his great shoulders, but "still he answered
not a word."

THE SEPARATION OF THE TWO "BOYS"

At a late hour Good Friday night, that same week, little Tad came in
alone at a basement door of the White House from the National Theater,
where he knew the manager, and some of the company, had made a great pet
of him. He had often gone there alone or with his tutor. How he had
heard the terrible news from Ford's Theater is not known, but he came up
the lower stairway with heartrending cries like a wounded animal.
Seeing Thomas Pendel, the faithful doorkeeper, he wailed from his
breaking heart:

"Tom P