MONTICELLO, MISSISSIPPI, JANUARY ~, 1916.
{"newspaper_name": "The Southern journal.", "edition": "01", "page": "p1", "byline": ""}
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a fairer home for wife and child; fresh
flowers should bloom over the garden
walks, more lovely vines trail along
the easement.


With this resolve kindling over hi
face, the blacksmith stood there, with
a cheerful light beamiDg from his large
grey eyes, when-a hand was laid
upon his shoulder. m
He turned and behcld the face of a
neighbor.


It was neighbor's face, but there
was an awful agony stamping those
plain features-there was an awful
agony flashing from those dilating
eyes-there was dark and a terrible
mystery speaking from those thin lips
that moved and moved, but made no
sound. .F


For moment that farmer tried to
speak the horror that convulsed his
features.


At last, forcing the blacksmith a.
long the brown gravelled walk, now
strewn with cinders, lie pointed to the
smoking embers. There, there-amid
that heap Of black and smoking ruins,
the blacksmith beheld dark mass of
burnt flesh and blackened bones.


"Yomr wife" shrieked the farmer,
as his agony found words. The
British they came in the night, they''
land then he spoke that outrage,
which the lip quivers to think on,
which the heart grows palsied to tell
that outrage too foul to name
"Your wife!" he shrieked, pointing to
the hideous thing, amid the smoking
ruins; "the British they murdered your
wife, they flung her dead body in the
flames-,hey dashed your child against
the hearthstone!"


This was the farmers story.


And there, as the light of the brea.
king day fell around the spot, there
stood the husband, the father, gazing
upon that mass of burned flesh and
bIackened bones-oH that was once his
wie.


Do you ask me Tor the words that
trembled from his white lips? Do
you ask me for the fire that blazed in
his eye?


Icannot tell you. But l can tell
you that there was vow going up to
Heaven from that blacksmith's heart;
and there was clenched hand, up.
raised. in the light Of the breaking
day!


Yes, yes, as the first CLEAN Of the
autumnal dawn broke around the spot,
as the first long CLEAN Of sunlight
streamed over the peeled skull of that
fair young wife-she was that last
night-there was VOW going up to
Heaven, the vow Of maddened heart
and anguished brain.


How was that vow kept? Go there
to Brandywine, and where the carnage
gathers thickest, where the fight is
most bloody, there you may see stout
form striding on, lifting huge ham
mer into light. Where that hammer
falls, it kiIls-where that hammer
strikes, it crushes! 1t is the black.
smiths form. And the war-cry that
he shouts? is it a mad cry Of ven-
geance-half howl, half hurrah? Is
it but fierce yell, breaking up from
his heaving chest?


All no! All no


ltis the name of-MARY! 1t is the
name of his young wife!
Oh, Mary-sweetest name Of wo-
man-name so soft, so ripping, so
musical-name ofthe Mother of Jesus,
made holy by poetry and religion
how strangely did your syllables Of
music ring out from that blacksmith's
lips, as he went murdeIing on!


"Mary" he shouts, as he drags that