BY MRS. I. G. BRAMAN.
Memorial Day! It does not mean to me
A soldier marching by with martial tread,
Nor yet a grave marked by a waving flag
Amid the quiet bivouac of the dead.
To me it means a head of yellow curls,
A pair of sweet brown eyes uplift to mine;
Two dear red lips, two little dirty hands,
A sturdy step—my soldier boy of nine.
It means a little, broken, silent drum,
A dusty soldier-cap of red and gold;
A little flower-strewn mound—ah me, how short!
Where sleeps my soldier boy just nine years old.
Watervliet, N. Y.
Troy Times. May 28, 1910