1914. 
THE RURAL NEW-YORKER 
T67 
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WOMAN 
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HOME 
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THE FOUR-LEGGED HERO 
A STORY OF DECORATION DAY 
By “ THE HOPE FARM MAN ” 
Illustration By HAYNSWORTH BALDREY 
You want another story—bringing Decoration Day 
And flags and soldiers in it? Well, now, while your Pa's away 
A-meeting with old comrades in the churchyard with the flowers, 
Recalling hack to memory ghosts of long-forgotten hours, 
I'll just whirl in an’ tell you while the thing is on my mind, 
A story of old war-times that you’ll never, never find 
In printed books or papers, but for all that I tell you 
W e never should forget it or say it isn’t true. 
We came from West Virginia; just take out your little book 
Wherein there’s maps and pictures, and you hardly need to look 
To see the way she hinges, right between the North and South ; 
Those mountains, as you may say, were the teeth in slavery's mouth. 
And brother fought with brother—yes, and father fought with son. 
All my boys loved the Union, and; the whole of them but one 
Marched off to serve McClellan. Billy's wife was Southern bred; 
For her sake he turned southward, where old Stonewall Jackson led, 
And me and mother waited through the war, with no one there 
But Katie, Billy’s daughter—little tot with eyes and hair 
Just like yours to a shadow—for her mammy’s heart grew still 
When news come back that Billy was asleep at Malvern Hill. 
1 tell you it was lonesome waiting through those weary days. 
The memory of that waiting can’t be blotted out—it stays. 
First one side and then t’other went a-riding back and forth. 
As war went rolling southward or again rolled back up North. 
One evening I sat nodding, with my bad leg on a chair; 
A tap came at the window—I was mighty hard to scare 
In those days—“Come!” I shouted. Strange enough it is to tell, 
The door swung slowly open, and in walked, or rather fell, 
A slender, light-haired fellow, pale, with ragged coat of blue, 
A bandage on his forehead—didn’t need to ask, we knew— 
A wounded Union soldier—knew it all before he said, 
“JL friend!” We washed and fed him, and just tucked him into bed. 
Don’t know how far he’d wandered in his weakness and his pain. 
Just raved about his mother, with the fever at his brain. 
We hid him in the attic and we nursed him up with care, 
Till tardy strength came to him and brought back his rightful share, 
Until one pleasant morning—seems as though ’twas yesterday, 
Around the rocks below us rode a squad of troops in gray. 
“Run ! Jump into that haystack!” I says. “Pull the hay down right!” 
Was hardly under cover when the soldiers rode in sight. 
Our Katie sat there playing with her dog out in the sun. 
I called her up and whispered: “Don’t betray him, little one! 
Don’t tell them where lie’s hiding; never mind what they may do. 
i t do j out duty, Ivatie. I know you’ll be brave and true.” 
“Now, then! We want that soldier!” says the leader. “Well,” says 1, 
“\ou better come and get him—I would say—you better try.” 
Then Katie’s little doggie brussled up his hair and growled 
As though he’d like to fight ’em; and the ugly captain scowled 
And then grinned through his whiskers. “Here, iest catch that dog!” 
he said, 
“And tie that rope around him—’round his neck, below his head. 
And let the young one see him; you’ll hear from her ’fore he yelps. 
Now hang him up—be lively! Yes! Every little helps!” 
They caught poor little Rover and then hung him to the tree 
Down there beside the haystack—little Katie looked at me 
AYith eyes just running over. Oh ! If I had had my gun 
I'd drilled through that big feller’s heart a passage for the sun. 
Poor little girl; she pleaded, “Please, sir, let my doggie go! 
Please, please don t hang old Rover—you just lmow I love him so!” 
“Well, will you tell?” “I can’t sir, for I love that soldier, too. 
An’ grandpa told me always that I must be brave and true.” 
“Well, string him up!” Poor Rover! They just yanked him till his toes 
Scarce scraped the ground—no whimper from the little dog arose. 
The little four-legged hero—just chuck full of loyal grit. 
There was tarrier blood into him, and them tarriers never quit. 
“Now, will you tell?” Poor Rover! how he turned his patient eye 
Up to his little mistress. “Don’t you tell me any lie!” 
The sneering captain added; but she raised her little head 
And just fought back her sobbing. “I will never tell!” she said. 
Then that hay stack rose up lively—much to every one's surprise; 
Out jumped the Union soldier, fire just blazing from his eyes— 
Just couldn’t stand it longer. He stood up and faced ’em all. 
“Don’t dare to plague that baby! Fight with men, or not at all!’’ 
They jumped on him and bound him, with his hands behind his back. 
He stooped and kissed poor Katie as they led him down the track. 
“Don’t you cry, my little woman; you were true as steel,” he said ; 
But the baby didn’t hear him, for her little dog was dead! 
They passed on down the mountain, leaving Katie lying there, 
Her baby fingers clutching poor, dead Rover’s curly hair. 
At last the war was over and the wounds began to heal; 
The rankling in vour bosom sorter lost its savage feel. 
We wondered if that soldier ever lived to get away; 
Set talking it with Katie on the porch one Summer day. 
A man rode up the mountain. My old eyes were getting dim; 
I didn’t need my glasses. • Katie, girl,” says I, “that’s him!” 
Seems though I’d always known him—we sat there and talked away, 
When he spoke up so solemn: “This is Decoration Day. 
The graves of all the heroes will be covered thick with flowers, 
The brave and silent soldiers sleeping through the Summer hours.” 
Then little Katie whispered, hardly knowing how ’twould sound, 
“Old Rover loved the Union!” That big fellow gave a bound 
1 CALLED HER UP AND WHISPERED, “DONT BETRAY HIM, LITTLE ONE.” 
1 T p straight as though you’d shot him. “Come,” says he.now right away 
Let's show our love for Rover this first Decoration Day.” 
Queer sight it was to see them hunting posies on the road; 
Don't take such willing workers long to pick up quite a load. 
1 limped, and mother with me, just to see them decorate. 
They wasn't any speaking— couldn’t none of us orate. 
The soldier only muttered—something glistening in his eye: 
"He who dies to serve his country has a holy death to die!” 
That's how this story started. I was sorter scared, I own, 
When, 'most before I knew it, Kate bloomed out a woman grown. 
The soldier says “1 want her!” Nothing left for me to say. 
1 let them do the talking, and I reckon that the way. 
Your eyes and hair and figure favor hers, my little dear, 
And I, your double gran'pop, find myself a sitting here. 
We don't forget old Rover when it’s Decoration Day; 
AYe give him fond remembrance, though his grave is far away. 
Your mother says that never can we hope to pay the score; 
He died to serve his country—not a single man did more. 
