rail or wagon sent contribution. Grace Church was a floral depot; maids, matrons and children met there early to weave blossoms and greenery into stars, crosses, crowns and flags--their beloved Southern cross. Vehicles lent by express and hotel companies formed floral caravanseries moving towards the cemetery. [Illustration: MRS. REBECCA CALHOUN PICKENS BACON Daughter of Francis W. Pickens, the "Secession Governor" of South Carolina: organizer of the D. A. R. in her state.] Then, another procession wound its way to Hollywood, the military companies and the populace, flower-laden, and a long, long line of children, many orphans. There were few or no carriages. The people had none. Old and young walked. The soldiers' section was soon like one great garden of roses white and red; of gleaming lilies and magnolias; of all things sweet-scented, gay and beautiful. Scattered here and there like forget-me-nots over many a gallant sleeper was the blue badge in ribbon or blossom of the Richmond Blues. Thousands visited the green hillside where General Jeb Stuart lay, a simple wooden board marking the spot; his grave was a mound of flowers. From an improvised niche of evergreens, Valentine's life-like bust of the gay chevalier smiled upon old friends. No hero, great or lowly, was forgotten. What a tale of broken hearts and desolate homes far away the many graves told! Here had the Texas Ranger ended his march; here had brave lads from the Land of Flowers and all the States intervening bivouacked for a long, long night, from whose slumbers no bugle might wake them. What women and children standing in lonely doorways, hands shading their eyes, watched for the coming of these marked "Unknown"! Little Joe Davis' lonely grave was a shrine on which children heaped offerings as they marched past in procession, each dropping a flower, until one must thrust flowers aside to read the inscriptions that make of that tiny tomb a mile-stone in American history--"Joseph, Son of our Beloved President, Jefferson Davis," "Erected by the little boys and girls of the Southern Capital." As blossoms fell, the hearts of the flower-strewers beat tenderly for little Joe's father, then the Prisoner of Fortress Monroe, and for his troubled mother and her living children.