6

We did all we

thought he was right, and I knew I was. could, and three of the boys gave up their lives for the South; Bill and John at Gettysburg, and Jimmie down in Georgia, fighting Sherman. Tom, here,' with a nod toward the broad-shouldered man, was our baby, and I hated to see him go. He was working at Fayetteville; and one day I got a letter from him, in which he said. that he had 'listed in the old 15th Infantry, and would leave the next day for the front. I got one other letter from him, and then the news came that he had been killed at Chancellorsville. His old mother took on powerful about it. She always was a weakly sort of a woman, and she just pined away like, mourning for Tom. She did n't live more 'n three months, and when she died I just give plumb up. They started a company of homeguards out of old men to do guard duty at Salisbury prison, and I joined 'em. We had a tolerable easy time; but I got wet one night, took sick with the bilious fever, and liked to have died. When I finally got well the rheumatism took hold of my old bones, and there were months at a time when I could n't touch my foot to the ground. What little money I had went; and when the surrender took place I had about twenty dollars left in a Confederate bill and a five-dollar gold-piece. One of my sisters lived in Catawba County, and I wrote and asked her if she would let me come and spend the few days I had to live at her home. Her husband wrote back that I was welcome to such as they had, and I spent my five-dollar gold-piece to get to 'em. They were monstrous poor, and had a large family of children. Although they were mighty kind to me, I could see that I was a burden to 'em, and I made up my mind to go to the infirmary. The rheumatism crippled me up so bad that I could n't work on the bench; and I tell you, stranger, things looked mighty dark for a childless, wifeless old man. One day I was studying what to do. I picked up a

paper, and the first line on the page caused an idea to flash into my head. It was something about the President, and I says: "I'll go to Andy; he will perhaps do something for his old friend." I thought at first I'd write, and then I concluded to go in person. I had no money to pay railroad fare; but my brother-in-law fixed up a little bundle of clothes, and I started out afoot. It was a long march, mister, but I kept moving on, and people all along the road was powerful kind to me. I think I was about ten weeks making the trip. A tailor who used to work with me in Raleigh lived in Alexandria, and I stayed all night with him. The next morning I got up bright and early, brushed up my clothes, and walked across the Long Bridge. I strolled around the city until mighty nigh noon, and then I inquired for the White House, and a boy directed me to it. When I got there I saw so many fine gentlemen and ladies goin' in and out that I was almost disheartened, and I turned back two or three times. You see, mister, I thought that if Andy had such fine visitors as them I would n't stand much of a show of seeing him. But I judged him wrong, sir; I judged him wrong. I followed the people into the house, and a fellow all covered with gold lace showed me into a room, where I was to sit until Andy was ready to receive visitors. I waited a half-hour, maybe, when two big doors at one end of the room were opened, and another fellow in uniform cried out: "The President."

"I went in with the rest, and there stood Andy on a little platform, shaking hands with this one, and speaking a word to that one. I sorter hung back to have a good look at him. It had been many years since I saw him, but I knew him in a minute. His hair was thinner, and turning gray, but he was the same old Andy. Before I knew it I had hold of his hand, and a fellow whispered my name, which they made me write on a little card. He was n't looking at me when he first took my hand,

but when the fellow in gold lace spoke, he leaned over and looked in my face.

"""God bless my soul," said he, "it's my old friend, Tom Lomsden !" and then he turned to the officer and said something. The officer shouted: "The reception is over!" and Andy, still holding my hand, led me back into a little room behind the big one. There were lots of great men there, Senators and generals and Cabinet-officers, and Andy introduced me to 'em all. Andy was n't a proud man, sir, and although he was President, he was n't ashamed of me in my homespun clothes, or afraid to acknowledge that we had worked together on the tailor's bench in old Raleigh.

"""This is my old friend, Tom Lomsden, gentlemen," he said, calling each one of 'em by name. "We worked together on the tailor's bench in Raleigh, forty years ago." And the gentlemen all shook hands with me, and inquired after my health, and I was just crying all the time. Andy saw it, and he excused himself from the great men and took me back into his own private room. "Tom," he says, and I remember his exact words; "Tom, old boy, I'm damned glad to see you. I've got some good old corn-whisky here, and we 'll take a drink for the sake of old times." He shook my hand, and I sorter managed to say: "I'm glad to see you, Andy. I always said you would be a great man, and am more than glad that you don't forget your old friends."

"Well, sir, I stayed there two weeks, and Andy introduced me to all the great men, and was very kind to me. I told him all my troubles, and why I came to him, and he promised me that, although he was not a rich man, I should never want for anything. One day we were out walking together, and a squad of soldiers passed us. They saluted the President, and one of the men ran out of the line and shook hands with me. It was Tom there, whom I thought dead at Chancellorsville. He'll tell you the rest.'

"The old man was crying now, and rocked the cradle

My eyes were a little ob

turned to broad-shouldered

violently to hide his tears. scured by moisture; but I Tom, and he related the sequel, which, you must admit, is a genuine mountain idyl.

"It was a long story, but briefly told about as follows: Tom was not killed, as reported, at Chancellorsville, but desperately wounded and made a prisoner. He was sent to Columbus, O., and when he recovered from his wounds managed to make his escape. He worked his way to the Ohio River, and one dark night attempted to cross into Kentucky. He was discovered by some home guards, pursued, and again wounded. He managed to land on the Kentucky side, however, and escaped in the darkness, dragging a shattered leg through the thick bushes. He hobbled along all that night, but grew weak from the loss of blood. He saw a log cabin in the distance, and nerved himself to reach it. The effort was successful, but he fell fainting across the threshold. The family living there were Union people, and the head of the household, Grimsey Webb, was in the body of home guards that surrounded the escaping rebel on the river the night before. They took him in, however, and nursed him back to life. Grimsey Webb had a daughter, Kate, who was constantly at the bedside of the wounded soldier. As is usual, under such romantic circumstances, an attachment sprang up between the two which ripened into love. When Tom Lomsden was able to move, Kate Webb had promised to marry him. The Union forces were in possession of the country, and they gave the fugitive the choice of going back to prison or joining the Union army. He elected to do the latter, enlisted, received his bounty, bade his sweetheart goodbye, and was marched off to the front. For gallantry during the latter days of the Confederacy, where the once grand army of Virginia fought the superior forces of the enemy with the desperation of despair, Tom Lomsden was made

a sergeant in Company K of the 102d Ohio, commanded by Colonel Routledge, and after the surrender at Appomattox he was transferred to the 57th Pennsyvania, and ordered to Washington for garrison duty. His regiment was mustered out of the service a few days after meeting his father, and he hastened back to Lewis County, Kentucky, to greet his sweetheart.

"We were not rich,' said he, in conclusion, but the President gave father one thousand dollars, and we bought this place.'

"He was the best friend I ever had; God bless him,' said the old man, softly; 'and down to the day of his death he sent me regularly every month twenty dollars. I was in hopes to be able to vote for him again for President, but the Lord took him away. He sent me that picture a few days before he died. He was the best friend I ever had, and I always said he would be a great man some day."