HOW quickly Nature takes possession of a deserted battlefield, and goes
to work repairing the ravages of man! With invisible magic hand she
smooths the rough earthworks, fills the rifle-pits with delicate
flowers, and wraps the splintered tree-trunks with her fluent drapery
of tendrils. Soon the whole sharp outline of the spot is lost in
unremembering grass. Where the deadly rifle-ball whistled 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--