“Ever since the war the United States navy has had a fair representation of Negro bluejackets, and they make first-class naval tars.  There is not a ship in the navy to-day that hasn’t from six to a dozen, anyhow, of Negroes on its muster rolls.  The Negro sailors’ names very rarely get enrolled on the bad conduct lists.  They are obedient, sober men and good seamen.  There are many petty officers among them.”—­The Planet.

THE CHARGE OF THE “NIGGER NINTH” ON SAN JUAN HILL.

BY GEORGE E. POWELL

  Hark!  O’er the drowsy trooper’s dream,
  There comes a martial metal’s scream,
    That startles one and all! 
  It is the word, to wake, to die! 
  To hear the foeman’s fierce defy! 
  To fling the column’s battle-cry! 
    The “boots and saddles” call.

  The shimmering steel, the glow or morn,
  The rally-call of battle-horn,
  Proclaim a day of carnage, born
    For better or for ill. 
  Above the pictured tentage white,
  Above the weapons glinting bright,
  The day god casts a golden light
    Across the San Juan Hill.

  “Forward!” “Forward!” comes the cry,
  As stalwart columns, ambling by,
  Stride over graves that, waiting, lie
    Undug in mother earth! 
  Their goal, the flag of fierce Castile
  Above her serried ranks of steel,
  Insensate to the cannon’s peal
    That gives the battle birth!

  As brawn as black—­a fearless foe;
  Grave, grim and grand, they onward go,
    To conquer or to die! 
  The rule of right; the march of might;
  A dusky host from darker night,
  Responsive to the morning light,
    To work the martial will! 
  And o’er the trench and trembling earth,
  The morn that gives the battle birth
    Is on the San Juan Hill!

  Hark! sounds again the bugle call! 
  Let ring the rifles over all,
  To shriek above the battle-pall
    The war-god’s jubilee! 
  Their’s, were bondmen, low, and long;
  Their’s, once weak against the strong;
  Their’s, to strike and stay the wrong,
    That strangers might be free!

  And on, and on, for weal or woe,
  The tawny faces grimmer go,
  That bade no mercy to a foe
    That pitties but to kill. 
  “Close up!” “Close up!” is heard, and said,
  And yet the rain of steel and lead
  Still leaves a livid trail of red
    Upon the San Juan Hill!

  “Charge!” “Charge!” The bugle peals again;
  ’Tis life or death for Roosevelt’s men!—­
    The Mausers make reply! 
  Aye! speechless are those swarthy sons,
  Save for the clamor of the guns—­
    Their only battle-cry! 
  The lowly stain upon each face,
  The taunt still fresh of prouder race,
  But speeds the step that springs a pace,
    To succor or to die!