422 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
[May 28, 1898. 
=» s-i-r— 
A Humble Grave. 
A Story of Decoration Day. 
As the 1)and struck up the livelier strain of an old 
war song, and began to march from the graveyard, with 
the scattered procession straggling into line behind it, I, 
as a^ stranger in the little town, stood apart, curiously 
looking on at the procession and its spectators. 
There were the band, very much absorbed in itself and 
its own performance; the fussy little marshal, who evi- 
dently considered himself a more important figure than 
the oldest grizzled and scarred veteran of the little com- 
pany that marched behind the band with the unforgot- 
ten swinging step which had borne the flag that still 
flaunted so proudly above them, to its final victory in 
the old historic days. There were the larger company 
of the Sons of Veterans, whose faces shone with the 
pride of the reflected glory of their fathers' achieve- 
ments. After them came the town authorities, selectmen, 
and justices, preserving with difficulty at the same time 
their dignity and their step. Then came an order and a 
society whose numbers helped to lengthen the proces- 
sion to which some of the unclassified crowd attached 
themselves, while others held aloof, mere lookers on, like 
myself. 
Of these were some who, if they had ttot been actots 
in the great drama which the day commemorated, must 
have beheld something of it, but there were more- so 
5'^oung that it must have seemed to them an almost 
mythical tradition. Its heartaches, its heartbreaks, its 
prayers, its tears, its thanksgivings, its ofiEerings and 
sacrifices, its weary waitings, and its triumphs and all 
its thronging emotions, they could scarcely imagine. 
My attention was drawn to an old soldier who had 
fallen out of the ranks of the veterans and who now 
joined a woman of about his own age and evidently 
his wife, for he addressed her as "mother," after a com- 
mon custom of New England husbands. She still car- 
ried a small wreath of apple blossoms and a bouquet of 
wild violets and moose flowers whose bloom the back- 
ward season had deferred till now, as if nature had 
withheld them for this commemoration. 
1 wondered wlty the flowers had not been laid on 
some grave, and watched the couple with a good deal of 
curiosity as they went slowly down the road, he leaning 
on her, and going with such a halting gait that I thought 
him quite excusable from marching further with his 
comrades. 
When the two were left behind by the rear of the pro- 
cession, they quitted the highway and held across the 
fields, as it chanced in the direction of my temporary 
lodgings, whither I took my way after wandering awhile 
in the old graveyard, deserted now by all but m3^self 
and its steadfast tenants, among whom were represen- 
tatives of three wars, for it was an old burial place and 
some soldiers of the Revolution were laid there, their 
sunken graves as profusely garlanded as those of the 
fresher mounds of later patriots. 
The fields were pleasant with the fresh greenness 
of spring, the joyous song of lark, bobolink and sparrow, 
alight in the grass or on wing above it, of orioles flash- 
ing through the new-leaved elms, like shuttles of flame 
thrown athwart warps of tender green, with kine and 
sheep grazing too eagerly to heed a loitering stranger 
or the frolicking lambs, so that I strolled along in 
leisurely enjoyment of the peaceful scene and its sweet 
natural sounds, with which the dull throb of the drum 
and the mellowed blare of the brazen horns were not in- 
harmoniously mingled. 
As I came to an old orchard on the hillside behind 
an old farmhouse, whose sides were as gray as the 
gnarled tree trunks, and the roof almost as green with 
moss as their tops with opening leaves, there I found 
my old soldier and his wife sitting on the grass in 
the dappled shade of apple leaves and blossoms beside 
a small grave. 
The wreath was hung on the low headstone, which 
was a short slab of rough slate, and the bouquet was laid 
on the mound, from which the woman was carefully 
plucking some intruding thistles. 
I did not wish to disturb their privacy and would 
have withdrawn, but had forced my way through a cor- 
don of wild raspberry briers to the orchard wall before 
I observed them only a few yards before me, and the 
noise of my passage having made them aware of me, it 
seemed the better way to keep on. I said as much by 
way of apology and was about to pass on when the man 
explained, smiling pleasantly; 
"We was just a-puttin' some posies on Jack's grave. 
We always do just the same as on t' others," 
" He must have been a pretty small soldier," I said, 
"a drummer boy, perhaps?" 
"O no, he wa'n't even that, he wa'n't only a dog. Just 
Jack, see?" He pointed to the headstone, to which I 
drew near and read the roughly cut inscription: 
"Jack, A Faithful Friend. Died Aug. 3, 1870, Aged 
12 years." 
"Yes, that's what he was, and I ought to say so, for he 
Saved my life," 
"No more'n I ought to, father," said his wife, look- 
ing on him tenderly, and though she had at first seemed 
rather annoyed by my presence, she srave me a kinder 
glance when I said: 
"Nq wonder you are both so fond of him. How was 
it, if you don't mind telling me?" 
"Sartainly, if you care about hearing it. Set right 
down here," motioning to a place beside him, and pre- 
sently he began the story: 
"Mother and me hadn't been married more'n three 
months when the war broke out, an' I kinder hung of¥ 
about eniistin' for quite a spell, but afore the summer 
was gone I did, for most all my mates had gone to the 
war, an' I was ashamed not to. It was hard for mother 
an' me to part, as you may know, an' so it was for me 
an' Jack. He was goin' on three year old and had been 
with me every day since he was a puppy. He wa'n't no 
particular breed, just dog, I guess, if he wa'n't part 
human, for you can't make us believe he hadn't got a 
»oi^I.. You could see it in his e^es as plain as ever you 
did in anybody's. An' he was harn'some too, if he was — 
but mother never would allow that he was yaller," and 
he gave me a quizzical glance. 
"Indeed he was not yaller," his wife broke in, with 
spirit. She plucked a spear of last year's faded grass, 
and holding it out to me said, "There, sir, he was the 
color of that an' I'll leave it to you if that's yaller." 
"No, I should say tawny, the color of a lion, you 
know," I said, whereupon she nodded triumphantly at 
her husband. 
"Well, they say a good horse can't be a bad color, 
and I s'pose it's the same with a good dog. But as I 
Avas a-sayin', Jack took on terribly at partin', an' they 
said that he'd go to the depot every evenin' to meet the 
train from the South an' watch for me to get ofT of it 
an' then go home an' mump around till the same time 
next day." 
"Yes," said the wife in confirmation, "he'd mope 
round all day till he heard the train whistle for the cross- 
in,' an' then he was ofi^, lickity-split, for our station, an' 
then after a while would come back as woebegone as 
ever. I do b'Heve he was more down-hearted than I 
was, though the Lord knows mine was heavj^ enough 
every day of all these years, but I had plenty to do in 
doors an' out, with the house an' farm to 'tend to. We 
was livin' here then." 
"So I went to the war," the veteran resumed, "an' 
took my shar' on't one way an' another; got wounded 
an' was in a hospital a spell, then went back to my regi- 
ment an' was took a prisoner, but they thought I was 
killed an' sent that Avord home. A good many times 
I thought I might better have been, but after a spell 
there was four of us got away, an' me an' one other feller 
got into our lines just alive enough to say so. It's 
quite a story how we done it, but Jack don't come in 
there, an' it was him I started to tell about. They give 
me a furlough, an' I come home an' got here afore a let- 
ter did I wrote. It was dark when we got to our depot, 
an' I didn't want nobody to hinder me a-talkin' from 
gittin' to mother, so I got of! from the car on t'other 
side from the depot an' scooted across lots the nighest 
way. There was a thunderstorm comin' up an' it was 
black as a wolf's mouth only when it lightened, but I 
knew everj^ step o' the way an' could see the light of our 
house to steer by, 
"There's a pretty steep holler that I had to cross, with 
a little brook runnin' through it, but I knew to a rod how 
far it was from the corner of Adams' meader to where a 
cattle path run down an' up t'other side, so I mogged 
along the sprycst I could, weak as I was. Then I heard 
something comin' full tilt behind me, an' next I knowed 
it piled on to me like a thousand o' brick, an' it was 
Jack. He'd found my track to the depot an' overhauled 
me. He was crazy glad an' I pretty nigh as tickled as 
he was, but afore long we steadied down an visited 
along as we traveled, an' I began to think Adams' mead- 
er had growed mighty wide, an' so it had, for he'd took 
in a lot o' pastur' and moved the fence since I see it. 
"But by and by I come to it an' over it an' doubled 
my jumps, for the further I went, the bigger my hurry 
an' the slower I seemed to go. An' then the next thing 
I knowed I stepped off into nothin' an' lit all in a heap 
in the bottom of the gully, and then I didn't know 
nothin' till I found myself to home laj-in' in bed with a 
bandaged head an' a broken arm an' a sprained ankle." 
He paused and his wife took up the story. 
"Yes, sir, I was a-sittin' in the kitchen with my brother, 
me a-sewin' an' him a-readin', when all of a sudden Jack 
come tearin' in just as different as could be from the 
way he generally come home, an' he barked an' run out 
an' then in again an' barked an' pulled at my dress, an' 
in a minute it come over me that father had come back, 
for I never had give up that he was dead for all every- 
body said so. 
"My heart stook stock still a-waitin' for him to come 
in, but he didn't, an' says I to my brother, 'John has 
come back, but I'm afraid soinething has happened to 
him; light the lantern an' we'll foller Jack.' 
"An' so we did, that dog runnin' back an' to, an' 
whinin' an' barkin' till he fetched us to the holler, an' 
there father lay as still as if he was dead, which I thought 
he was, an' almost died to have it so, an' him so nigh 
come back to me. 
"But we see signs o' life, an' Jim an' me we lugged 
him up the path this side. Jim wa'n't but sixteen, but 
was stout as a moose, an' we got him up some way, he 
wa'n't much more'n skin an' bone, an' you never see 
anv human bein' tickleder 'n what Jack was. 
"Well, we hadn't more'n got to the top when there 
come a roar louder'n the thunderstorm that was a-com- 
in' up, an' a-growin' louder an' louder, an' then afore 
we had time to guess what it was that gully was full of 
a rushin', ragin' flood, with timbers an' logs an' stones 
tearin' an' tumblin' along with it. The reservoir dam 
had broke away, an' I liked to have fainted thinkin' what 
would haA^e become of father if we'd been five minutes 
later, but we'd got to git him home, so there Ava'n't no 
time for such nonsense. 
"It was pourin' long afore we got him under shelter 
an' we Avas all soaked, but it didn't seem to hurt - 
father— the water didn't. He was bad enough .off, 
but he begun to pick up right aAvay an' mended so 
fast that I was 'most afraid he'd have to go back again. 
"But afore he got able to, though he^ wa'n't never 
again, really — the Avar Avas over an' Ava'n't I thankful! 
An' you'd ought to seen Jack hang around him just as 
anxious an' as thankful as a person. My! More'n most! 
"While he lived there Ava'n't nothin' too good for hmi, 
an' ever since he died we've put flowers on his grave. T 
s'pose some thinks it's foolish, but we Avouldn't miss of 
it for anything. j 
"We sold the farm ten year ago an went to live doAvn 
to the village. We keep a little store an' the post office, 
father he's postmaster. Maybe you'd have occasion to 
stop in and see us. Well, I guess aatc'vc pretty nigh tired 
you out, an' anvwav we must be goin', father." 
"Children? Yes. one boy. You might ha' seen hini 
'mongst the sons, one o' the tallest, nigh the head of the 
company. Good bye." . , • , • 
With "that they Avent their way and I mine, thinking 
there might be graves less Avorthy of decoration than 
that of this faithful and loving dog. 
Rowland E. Robinson. 
Ferrisburgh, Vermont, 
The Appomattox Apple Tree. 
There are doubtless many readers of Mr. Fred 
Mather's delightful recollections in Forest and Stream 
who have become participators with him in an interest 
in the history of the three Sweeny brothers, one of 
whom, Joe, he calls practically the "inventor of the 
banjo," I can contribute very little to their general fam- 
ily history; but there is one incident connected with 
them which I have never seen stated in print, and which, 
to those who knew of them, will doubtless have some 
interest. One of that family probably planted the cele- 
brated Appomattox apple tree, under Avhich, it used to 
be said, Gen. Lee surrendered to Gen. Grant, One of 
the brothers was in the Confederate army, and was de- 
tailed as a courier for Gen. Jeb Stuart. I have had him 
pointed out to me riding after Stuart along the lines, 
and heard often of the banjo serenades Gen. Stuart 
would give the ladies of his acquaintance whenever his 
camp was near them. I do not know what became of 
him after Stuart Avas killed in May, 1864. 
But about the apple tree I happen to know a great 
deal. On the morning of April 9, 1865, the Confederate 
army, "one of Avhom I was which," found itself pur- 
sued by one superior Federal force and headed off by 
another. Under these circumstances Gen. Lee rode 
back, about 7 A. M., to meet the force in his rear, with 
whom Gen. Grant was supposed to be, in order to make 
the surrender. MeauAA'hile the last line of battle ever 
formed by his army Avas throAvn across his front AA'ithin 
about a mile of Appomattox Court House, where Sheri- 
dan was driving back the Cenfederate advance guard un- 
der Gen. Gordon. After some sharp fighting Gordon sent 
a, flag of truce to Sheridan, suggesting that they stop 
killing each other until the result of Lee's meeting with 
Grant was known, to which Sheridan agreed. 
After a time Gen. Lee returned from the rear, having 
learned that Gen. Grant had left the troops in the rear 
and Avas passing around his flank, and would after 
aAvhile communicate Avith him from the front. Just in 
front of his line of battle and on the right of the road 
to Appomattox Court House was a small apple orchard, 
with a house at the edge furthest from the road, say 
40yds. My recollection of this house is that it Avas 
about 18 by 36ft., two stories high, without porches 
or any prominent outhouse, or any shade trees except 
the apple trees in front. The house seemed inhabited, 
and yet I can recall seeing no one during the tAVO or 
three days I remained in the vicinity. Probably, as gen- 
erally happened, the occupants ran off when the fight- 
ing began in the vicinity. This was the house of the 
SAveeny family. It Avas probably about 10 A. M. Avhen 
Gen. Lee rode into this orchard and dismounted, and 
for some little time was occupied in receiving and send- 
ing messages. Finally he was left entirely alone, and 
turning around said: "I would like to sit doAvn. Is 
there a place I can sit?" I happened to be, I think, the 
only person near enough to hear him. Only one of the 
apple trees was in enough leaf to give any shade. It 
Avas perhaps Soft, from the road near the middle of the 
orchard, and some couriers Avere squatted under it, hold- 
ing their horses. I asked them to remove the horses 
and to bring a dozen or so rails from the fence, and we 
made a nice seat under it, which the General took and 
thanked us. Some of his staff, Avho had all been sent off 
on errands, soon returned and joined him, and later Gen. 
Longstreet. Other prominent generals also came and 
went from time to time. The line of battle, infantry and 
artillery, about looyds. in rear, and stretching right and 
left for some distance, Avas still maintained, the men at 
rest and the officers generally in front. Gen, Lee re- 
mained here, I think, for about three hours. About t 
o'clock Col. Babcock, of Gen. Grant's staff, riding a fine 
bay, which looked exceedingl}^ fat by comparison with 
our horses, came riding from the front, and Avas con- 
ducted to Gen. Lee at the apple tree. He came to say 
that Gen. Grant would soon reach the little village of 
Appomattox Court House, and to invite Gen. Lee to ride 
there and await him. So Gen. Lee mounted, and accom- 
panied by Col. Marshall, of his stafl', and a courier, and 
Col. Babcock and his courier, he rode away. He 
stopped to water his white horse. Traveler, in the little 
creek some 200yds. in front, and made the Avhole group 
Avait until Traveler had his fill. Everything remained 
as it was until he came back, about 5 o'clock, and then 
Ave kncAV that the war Avas over. 
I made my bivouac in the apple orchard close by 
the SAveeny house for tAvo or three days, AA'hile parohng 
of the men and turning over arms and artillery was 
going on. On the evening of the next day, coming in 
from an all-day absence, I found the whole apple tree 
gone, and on the second evening there Avas only a big 
hole AAdiere its remotest roots had been dug up. I 
never thought of securing a memento for myself until 
it was too late. I could not find a splinter, and never 
since have I been able to find any one Avith a piece of 
it, or to hear of but one single piece. A sister, refugee- 
ing through South Carolina, first heard of the surrender 
from a private in a Texas regiment, footing it home. 
He told her about Gen. Lee's having sat under the tree, 
and shoAved her a piece of it. Doubtless the old soldiers 
in that last line of battle, who Avatched Gen. Lee under 
the tree for three hours, waiting for tlie end, were the 
ones to carry it off and scatter it from the Potomac to 
the Rio Grande. Jack Hildigo. 
Reminiscence. 
"Which, them boats thar, you mean? Them's dug- 
aouts. That long, crooked un wuz chopped aout'n a 
cypress lorg sorter in a hurry when the Avater wuz 
a-risiir an' it ain't got much shape, but that smooth look- 
in' cottouAVOod one agin it is all right fur trappin' an' 
raftin'. an' the like. Hit's stiddier'n it looks. But that 
little'n thar is the dandy! Pap made that'n aouter sassi- 
frax 'n' th' aint many folks 'at kin set in it. Hit fools Pap 
onct 'n' a Avhile. I see him onct — hit wuz a-rainin' drizzly 
like 'n' cold — he wuz gittin' in from baitin' his traps up 
to Cooterfoot, 'n' had killed a passel tw ducks, 'n' he avuz 
comin' daoAvn the bayou jest a sailin'. That sassifrax 
dugaout kin scoot, too! 'N' Pap wuz a-tryin' hit an' 
sorter shoAvin' off to XJniii Laz'rus an' me on the bank, 
'n' you see the slopin' bank jfest above you thar? Pap ^its 
