Close at his elbows all that day, Veterans of the Peninsula, Sunburnt and bearded, charged away; And striplings, downy of lip and chin,-- Clerks that the Home Guard mustered in,-- Glanced, as they passed, at the hat he wore, Then at the rifle his right hand bore; And hailed him, from out their youthful lore, With scraps of a slangy _répertoire_: “How are you, White Hat!” “Put her through!” “Your head’s level,” and “Bully for you!” Called him “Daddy,”--begged he’d disclose The name of the tailor who made his clothes, And what was the value he set on those; While Burns, unmindful of jeer and scoff, Stood there picking the rebels off,-- With his long brown rifle, and bell-crowned hat, And swallow-tails they were laughing at. ’Twas but a moment, for that respect Which clothes all courage their voices checked; And something the wildest could understand Spoke in the old man’s strong right hand; And his corded throat, and the lurking frown Of his eyebrows under his old bell-crown; Until, as they gazed, there crept an awe Through the ranks in whispers, and some men saw, In the antique vestments and long white hair, The Past of the Nation in battle there; And some of the soldiers since declare That the gleam of his old white hat afar, Like the crested plume of the brave Navarre, That day was their oriflamme of war. So raged the battle. You know the rest: How the rebels beaten and backward pressed, Broke at the final charge, and ran. At which John Burns--a practical man-- Shouldered his rifle, unbent his brows, And then went back to his bees and cows. That is the story of old John Burns; This is the moral the reader learns: In fighting the battle, the question’s whether You show a hat that’s white, or a feather! BRET HARTE. (By special permission of Houghton, Mifflin and Company.) 36 HIGH TIDE AT GETTYSBURG A cloud possessed the hollow field, The gathering battle’s smoky shield. Athwart the gloom the lightning flashed, And through the cloud some horsemen dashed, And from the heights the thunder pealed. Then at the brief command of Lee Moved out that matchless infantry, With Pickett leading grandly down, To rush against the roaring crown Of those dread heights of destiny. Far heard above the angry guns A cry across the tumult runs,-- The voice that rang through Shiloh’s woods And Chickamauga’s solitudes, The fierce South cheering on her sons! Ah, how the withering tempest blew Against the front of Pettigrew! A Kamsin wind that scorched and singed Like that infernal flame that fringed The British squares at Waterloo!