I was, however, honored by the invitation I received to act as Master of Ceremonies on this occasion. Lincoln Post of the G. A. R. is the largest Grand Army organization in the West—probably the largest in the country. Its members represent every army, every corps, and probably every division and brigade of the Union Army. Always enthusiastic, always ready for duty, preserving fresh and fair the inspiration that warmed their hearts and nerved their arms a quarter of a century ago, and maintaining unbroken the ties of comradeship which united them when they touched elbows in the long line of patriot heroes stretching from the Rocky Mountains to the Atlantic—it is indeed an honor to be called by such a Post, to preside at the installation of its officers. None the less do I appreciate the honor of acting as Master of Ceremonies at the installation of the officers of the Relief Corps. I have often thought that, after all, it was the patriotic women of the country who had the hardest part to bear during the long and dreadful years of the war. The excitement of a soldier’s life, the changing scenes of march and camp, the inspiration of comradeship, the pride of duty well performed, the sustaining power of organization and numbers—all these were denied them. Powerless except to suffer, voiceless except to pray, and yet patient, self-sacrificing and brave, mothers, wives, sisters and sweethearts of this land felt every shot that echoed on the battle-fields of the war as a wound, and staggered under the load of every hardship or privation our soldiers were called upon to endure. The women at home were just as true patriots and heroes as the men at the front: “The maid who binds her warrior’s sash With smile that well her pain dissembles, The while beneath her drooping lash One starry tear-drop hangs and trembles; Though Heaven alone records the tear, And fame shall never know her story, Her heart has shed a drop as dear As e’er bedewed the field of glory. “The wife who girds her husband’s sword, ’Mid little ones who weep and wonder, And bravely speaks the cheering word, What though her heart be rent asunder, Doomed nightly in her dreams to hear The bolts of death around him rattle, Hath shed as sacred blood as e’er Was poured upon the field of battle. “The mother who conceals her grief While to her breast her son she presses, Then breathes a few brave words and brief, Kissing the patriot brow she blesses, With no one but her secret God To know the pain that weighs upon her, Sheds holy blood as e’er the sod Received on Freedom’s field of honor.”