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THE GREAT BATTLE YEAR.

CHAPTER I.

THE MARCH TO VICKSBURG.

Two years of war had passed over the land-years of suspense to hundreds of homes-of affliction to many of them. How long would it last? asked the Warrens of their own hearts. How many months were yet to pass in painful anxiety, relieved now and then by news from the battle-field? They could only echo, not respond to the question; for they would not recall their sons, and so long as the country needed defending, the boys had no thought of return. Meantime, both parents and children, by reason of the extent of their sacrifice, noted with deep

ening solicitude the course of the conflict; for was not Daniel, their brave young defender, in the East, and Horace, their Western hero, and had they not sent forth Aunt Ellen to minister in the common cause? Each fresh arrival of news from the seat of war was read and discussed, while Frank's "War Department" increased so fast that it bade fair to fill the main bulk of his scrap-book.

"Here are some new stories of men who fought at Arkansas Post," he said, one evening, when the school books were put away. "Did they have much of a battle there, father?"

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Why, yes, so it would seem from the summing up; nearly a thousand men were disabled when the place was attacked on the eleventh of January; and the report says we took five thousand prisoners, seventeen guns, together with large quantities of small arms, munitions, and commissary stores."

"That's enough to make a feather for

somebody's cap; whose is it ?" asked Roger.

"McClernard was the general commanding the same who succeeded Sherman after the attack on Vicksburg. The rebels received word to 'hold on till help arrived, or till all should be dead;' but, though they fought well while there was hope of success, they were not so foolish as to obey the order after we had silenced all their guns. What does your story say of the battle?"

"It's about the men who were wounded," said Frank; and read:-"Six hundred noble fellows are lying in a hospital at Memphis, in the care of 'Mother Byckerdyke,' a nurse of renown in the army. Purer air, whiter sheets, more delicate food than that provided by the Mother could not be found in the soldiers' homes. As she passes through the wards she calls each man by name, and seems to foreknow their least want. 'William, is the egg right ?' she asks. 'Exactly, Mother,' replies William. 'Well,

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