ROBERT KENDERDINE. 335 



the North arose from city square or village green. 'Tis true 

 he had, when through some fortuitous circumstances his 

 battle-gashed body reached home, a stone at his head in the 

 graveyard of his native village which his comrades could 

 annually decorate. But more than that, and better than 

 mural marks were the memories of the gallant deeds done in 

 his devotion to country, which perennially bloomed in the souls 

 of those who saw him go forth to the sacrifice. In the words 

 of that beautiful poem, " The Man with a Musket," 



" I knew him ! By all that is noble I knew 

 This commonplace hero I name ! 

 I've camped with him, marched with him, fought with him too 

 In the swirl of the fierce battle flame ! 



* * * * 



I knew him I tell you ! And, also, I knew 



When he fell on the battle-swept ridge, 

 That the poor battered body that lay there in blue 



Was only a plank in the bridge 

 Over which some one should pass to a fame 



That shall shine while the high stars shall shine. 

 Your hero is known by an echoing name, 



But the man of the musket is mine ! " 



The body of the young soldier was brought home and buried 

 in the beautiful yard fronting the Friends' meeting-house 

 where he attended in his peaceful days. He died a soldier's 

 death. He was buried in the ways of the peaceful sect which 

 looks upon war with abhorrence. No battle-flag draped his 

 coffin, nor soft bugle notes nor muffled drum played a funeral 

 march to his grave. No platoon, with reversed muskets, went 

 before him ; no parting volley closed the scene. An aged 

 ministering Friend spoke a few consoling words over his re- 

 mains, and Robert Kenderdine was laid to rest amid the sor- 

 row of all Avho knew him, and now, 



'' After life's fitful fever, he sleeps well ! " 



