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“  this priceless little paper to bitterness; for, the rear-guard would hunt him from his own cottage, in half an hour, a deserter and a coward.” Not a sound could be heard save her hurried breathing. The rest of us held even our breath. Suddenly, with a gasp of recovered consciousness, she snatched the paper from my hand, put it back hurriedly in her bosom, and, turning once more to her mother, said: “Mother, tell him not to come.” I stepped aside at once. She left the porch, glided down the path to the gate, crossed the road, surmounted the fence with easy grace, climbed the hill, and, as she disappeared in the weedy pathway, I caught up my hat and said: “Now men, give her three cheers.” Such cheers! O, God! shall I ever again hear a cheer which bears a man's whole soul in it? I could have hurled that battalion against an embattled world. Comrades, we are about to unveil a monument to ‘The Confederate Dead,’ but one interesting feature of this occasion is its tender association with a Confederate, thank God, yet living. When little Sallie Baker shall draw aside yonder veil and reveal the noble figure behind it her act will also serve to recall the pathetic figure of the hero father to whose superb gallantry she owes her distinguished part in the ceremonies of this hour-comrade James B. Baker, a soldier who never faltered till he fell, and who has borne his wounds as bravely as he had worn his sword. And now, we leave this holy acre, we close this holy hour. We turn again to what we call ‘Life;’ we leave these gallant brothers whom we call ‘Dead.’ Yes, leave them here in silence, and with God. God will distill the gentlest dews of heaven upon these flowers He will direct the mildest stars of heaven upon these graves. God and his angels will guard their repose until the roses bloom again, then we will return, renewing our flowers and our faith.
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