“August 25th. Was to see Comrade Brown today, before they removed him to the hospital at Washington. He is very badly wounded, the bone being shattered and there is danger of gangrene. He gave me a letter to read which he received the previous day from home, written by his sister, Barbara. Among the many things she wrote was this: ‘On the night of the 15th and about two o’clock in the morning I dreamed that you came home. I could see you walking up to the door as plainly as I ever saw your familiar face. Your knock on the door wakened me out of a troubled sleep, and so sure was I that you were down at the door waiting to be admitted, that I insisted on some one going down to let you in. Of course it was all a dream, but so realistic, that I was sorely troubled until father read in the Tribune that you were wounded. Surely you must have been thinking of home at that hour.’” There the diary ended. For it was only a portion of the book in which this unknown comrade had been jotting down the events of his army life. The hand that put those written pages in the old trunk has been dead for many years, and we can only guess who the writer was. He, too, may have left his bones to decay in Virginia soil, and his diary sent back to Northern friends. But I knew this Samuel Shoemaker, and I still remember of hearing my parents talking about his sad death. No doubt there were many thousands of young men taken from their mountain homes and rushed to the front, and the change was so great that they could not prevent their hearts from longing for the dear old scenes of home—for the dear old mother, wife or sweetheart. And then came the hopelessness and melancholia and the loss of courage, and finally death. And yet that war settled nothing. The negro question is still the overshadowing problem calling for a solution. Burning negroes at the stake marks America as one of the barbarous nations. TWO MEN WHO TOUCHED MY SOUL When I was a young man I had occasion to write something for the local paper, published near my home. The late Girard Wright, brother of Theodore, editor-in-chief of the Philadelphia Record, was managing the paper at the time. He sent for me. Timidly I called at the office, for I was an awkward country youth and afraid of men who were established in the business world. There did not seem to be any place in the world for me outside of a barren hillside farm, and I always felt like a thief stealing off in the dark when I looked out over the world for something better. Mr. Wright was a revelation and an inspiration to me. Why, he was just as approachable as a boy. A handsome man, with the kindliest and most sympathetic face I had ever seen. I can shut my eyes and see that intelligent face, with those sympathetic eyes, into which the hopeless could look and find hope and courage. He wanted me to write for his paper. I told him frankly that I lacked education and vocabulary, and could write only in a crude style. And he replied: