That evening the sailors and marines were sent out to guard and escort in some prisoners, who were placed on board a large transport lying in the stream.

There were about a thousand prisoners, more or less.

The President expressed a desire to go on shore. I ordered the barge and went with him. We had to pass the transport with the prisoners. They all rushed to the side with eager curiosity. All wanted to see the northern President. They were perfectly content. Every man had a hunk of meat and a piece of bread in his hand, and was doing his best to dispose of it.

"That's Old Abe," said one in a low voice. "Give the old fellow three cheers," said another, while a third called out, "Hello, Abe! your bread and meat is better than pop-corn."

It was all good natured, and not meant in unkindness. I could see no difference between them and our own men, except that they were ragged and attenuated for want of wholesome food. They were as happy a set of men as ever I saw. They could see their homes looming up before them in the distance, and knew that the war was over.

"They will never shoulder a musket again in anger," said the President, "and if Grant is wise he will leave them their guns to shoot crows with-it would do no harm."

THE first fully armed regiment to GEN. PHIL KEARNEY was the

INTERESTING WAR RELIC.

A Sword Returned to its Owner After Twenty-Two Years.

Christmas in fibby Prison.

IN FOUR CHAPTERS.

A STRANGE CELEBRATION BY PRISONERS OF WAR.

A Banquet Under Difficulties and What it Cost.

SEEKING SANTA CLAUS IN PRISON WALLS.

By FRANK A. BURR.

I.

AMMA, do you know that it's only two weeks till Christmas! I wonder if Nadine will be well then? Oh! if she only was well and papa would come home, what a beautiful Christmas we would have!"

A little twelve-year old girl uttered these words, almost in a breath, and the mother, who sat in another part of the room, by the bedside of a pretty child some four years younger, had no chance to respond. The girl who wished so earnestly for her sister's recovery and for her father's return, stood looking out of the window, watching the fast falling snowflakes that were being piled into great drifts by the driving wind. Her long, dark hair fell carelessly over her shoulders, and a few becoming curls fringed the broad forehead that crowned rather a striking face.

It was near the end of one of the most eventful years of the history of the republic. It was in December, 1863. Vicksburg had fallen. The billows of angry war rolling up from Virginia had been broken at Gettysburg, and turned southward again by the splendid bulwark of Union arms. But the dark clouds of a desperate conflict yet darkened the skies of the land, and the fierce clash of sword and musket still drowned the voices of peace. Thousands of homes were wrapt in sadness and mourning for their absent ones. The approach of Christmas-tide, usually so full of joy and merriment, brought to the hearthstones of the

nation, only a vision of the old-time happiness in a troubled dream of war and death.

It was in a quiet, simple home, not far from Syracuse, N. Y., that the scene mentioned in the opening lines of this sketch occurred. It was the counterpart of thousands of others in every part of the land, in which the little ones, unable to understand the strange ways of men, looked forward to the holiday time with wistful longing for the return of the absent. The snow kept on falling, as if it would gladly cover with a spotless mantle all the wounds strife had made. The little girl still stood at the window looking out upon the dreary scene before her, while her mother sat by the bedside of her sick child. Suddenly she left the scene without, and, walking slowly over to her mother, took a seat at her feet. She was silent a moment, as if in deep thought, and then looking up said, almost appealingly:

Mamma, why do men go to war?"

My child, men go to war for great principles. You would not understand if I told you. Your father went to battle for his country because he loved you and me. It was his duty. Don't be sad, darling, he will think of us at Christmas, even if he isn't with us."

"Yes, I know he will, but it is so hard to be without him. But we'll think of him, won't we?" replied the child, and then, as if visited by a sudden inspiration, she said: "Why, mamma, I'll write him a letter and tell him how much we miss him, and in it I'll ask him to come home for Christmas.”

The little girl stole away from the sick room and wrote the letter. It was a child's message to a father.. It told of Nadine's illness and breathed hope for her recovery. It pictured the loneliness of the household, the mother's anxiety, the dreariness of winter, and the longing for the return of papa. The missive was sent on its way to reach the father the day before the child so longed for him to come home.

II.

Christmas Eve in Prison.

It was Christmas eve, the close of a dreary, desolate day. Even to those who were free to come and go at will, the dull, cloudy sky was gloomy and dispiriting, and cast a shade of melancholy over what ought to be the most joyous festival in all the

year. To the nine hundred and fifty Union officers confined in Libby prison, and the thousands of private soldiers that were huddled together at Belle Isle, on the banks of the James river, just beyond the city of Richmond, the occasion was doubly dismal. The afternoon was fast running on toward the gloaming, when Dick Turner, the keeper of Libby, appeared with the mail, for which every prisoner had been longing for weeks. The letters were quickly distributed, and it was not long before the eager ones who had received them were sitting apart in different parts of the building, greedily reading the news from home. Almost a dead silence prevailed. The time was a solemn one. The realization of having to spend the happiest and holiest of all holidays in a prison pen, remote from the hearthstone and its loved ones, was sharpened and made keener than ever by the arrival of those tender messages from home. An hour went by, and most of the fortunate ones had read their letters, folded them away to be read again to-morrow, and were walking about or engaged in quiet conversation to distract their minds from the thoughts of home and Christmas Christmas eve. One jovial spirited fellow, who had helped to cheer scores of gloomy hearts in camp and on the march, and afterward in prison, walking down the long room of the prison, spied a friend sitting, gloomy and silent, apart from every one. His chin rested on his right palm and his elbow was supported by his knee. His head was bowed low, and in his left hand, with outstretched arm, a white letter was clutched. He was the image of sorrow and despair. The merry hearted prisoner approached, slapped him on the back, and exclaimed:

"Come, Rocky, old boy, don't be so sad. Cheer up. Remember this is Christmas eve." Lieutenant Rockwell, of the 97th New York infantry, looked up at his friend, but for a minute did not speak. Then, with an effort, as if choking back his emotions, he handed him the letter he held in his hand and said:

The speaker rose and the two men walked slowly to a window inside of the building overlooking the James river. Twilight was fast approaching, and the shadows were just beginning to settle over the scene. In the distance, a long, low ridge of hills lifted themselves up against the sky, like sentinels guarding the prison from the armed hosts which lay beyond.