62 NortH Caronina Troops, 1861-65.

Confederate Army.” One hundred times its weight in gold

would not purchase this old piece of silver, associated as it
is with the distressing memories of the heart breaking sur-
render.

The regiment marched about eight miles to Old Center
Meeting House, in Randolph County, staying here about
three days and then we moved by way of Coleraine’s Mills to
Bush Hill (now Achdale), and came to a halt one mile from
old Trinity College.

THE SURRENDER.

General Johnston on 26 April made his final surrender of
the army to General Sherman and on 2 May, 1865, at Bush
Hill, what remained of the Third Junior Reserves were
paroled, and turned their faces sorrowfully homeward. The
regiment had been disbanded for all time.

This was the end of all our hopes and aspirations. Might
had prevailed over right and the conquered banner had been
furled forever.

North Carolina has much to be proud of. She was first
at Bethel, she went farthest at Gettysburg, she was last at
Appomattox, her dead and wounded in battle exceeded in
numbers those of any other two States of the Confederacy to-
gether. But, her last and most precious offering to the cause
of Liberty were her boy-soldiers, who at her bidding willingly
left their homes and marched and fought, and starved, and
froze, and bled, and died that she might live and be free. God
bless the Junior Reserves. Their memory will ever be cher-
ished by the Mother they loved so well.

The following patriotic lines, written by the author of the
“Conquered Banner,” will appeal to the heart of many a
mother whose young son marched away with the Junior Re-
serves:

‘¢ Young as the youngest, who donned the Gray,
True as the truest who wore it,
Brave as the bravest he marched away
(Hot tears on the cheeks of his mother lay),
Triumphant waved our flag one day—
He fell in the front before it.

SEVENTy-SEconp REGIMENT.

Firm as the firmest where duty led,
He hurried without a falter;
Bold as the boldest he fought and bled,
And the day was won—but the tield was red—
And the blood of his fresh young heart was shed
On his country’s ballowed altar.

On the trampled breast of the battle plain,
Where the foremost ranks had wrestled,
On his pale pure face not a mark of pain,
(His mother dreams that they will meet again),
The fairest form amid all the slain,
Like a child asleep he nestled.

In the solemn shade of the wood that swept
The field where his comrades found him,
They buried him there—and the big tears crept
Into strong men’s eyes that had seldom wept,
(His mother—God pity her--smiled and slept,
Dreaming her arms were around him),

“A grave in the woods with the grass o’ergrown,
A graye in the heart of his mother

His clay in the one lies lifeless and lone ;

There is not a name, there is not a stone,

And only the voice of the winds maketh moan

O’er the grave where never a flower is strewn,
But his memory lives in the other.’’

Joun W. Hinspatez.

Ratetan, N. C.,

26 Apri, 1901.