“Like old children they gathered around her, grasping her hand and blessing her and testifying to all the world what a blessing she had been to them.

“It was, indeed and truly, the most touching and striking incident of the late reunion of Confederate veterans at Dallas.”

CHAPTER III.

CAMP NICHOLS.

The Louisiana Soldiers’ Home.

I must begin with a digression, for, as thought concentrates itself upon this pleasant subject, one is irresistibly impelled to remember the delightful ride thitherward, and to wonder if any other city in the United States can boast of street-car routes so beautiful.  The visitor to “Camp Nichols,” taking on Canal Street a car of the Esplanade and Bayou Bridge line, is borne smoothly along for miles under cool, green arches of oak-trees, a broad street on either side, bordered by elegant residences and lovely, fragrant gardens.

Looking back, where the green arcade narrows away in the distance, or forward, to observe how the rough track is made beautiful by the shadows of dancing leaves and boughs,—­glancing at the rapidly-succeeding pictures of beauty and comfort on either side, inhaling the mingled perfume of flowers,—­one is placed under a spell of enchantment which lasts until, at “Bayou Bridge,” the end of the route is reached.  Leaving the car, a very short walk along the banks of the Bayou brings the visitor to the “camp.”  Upon entering the gate the first thought is, “How pleasant, how peaceful, how homelike.”  The comfortable-looking house is beautifully shaded by large live-oaks.  Under these green grass is diversified by neatly-kept walks.  Midway between the outer gate and the house a small stream is spanned by a rustic bridge.  As I stood upon this bridge and saw, upon the pleasant galleries in front of their rooms, the maimed and scarred veterans sitting in groups or apart, tranquilly smoking and chatting or reading, the dying words of our “Stonewall” Jackson came into my mind,—­“Let us cross the river and rest in the shade of the trees.”  To him was given eternal rest.  The weary spirit even then stood by the river of death and viewed beyond the trees of paradise.  Less happy these who remain to witness the downfall of hope.  Ah, what can be more glorious, yet more deeply sorrowful, than the story of their past.  The strength and beauty of their youth and early manhood was freely given to the cause they deemed sacred.  It was, alas! lost; and, the tempest of war subsiding, left upon a desolate shore these wrecks.

Returning after the war to find only ruined homes and shattered fortunes, those who had retained health and strength found them taxed to the utmost.  Necessity held them in bonds of iron, and the demands of helpless families absorbed them.  All the same, manly hearts have been often and painfully stirred by the silent appeals of maimed and suffering comrades, and the faithful few have never ceased to hope and strive for the result now attained in the “Soldiers’ Home.”