JUNE morning, clear and cool as October, and everything far and near fairly revelling in the early summer sunshine. The Potomac, blue as the sky above it, sparkling and dancing, the new young leaves on the oak trees shimmering and shining with the marvellous green of springtime, and the dear old Virginia homestead, overhanging the river, never looking more homelike and attractive in all its quiet life. The reason for this did not lie all in the sunshine either. Just outside the door, on the wide gallery, a darling old lady sat knitting, for as darling means “dearly beloved,” no other word could so truly describe her. Everybody worshipped her and regarded her—as well they might—with unspeakable devotion; for darling old ladies, as you very well know, do not grow on every bush—quite to the contrary—a great many old ladies (bless their tired old hearts!) grow fretful and nervous and fussy, and are hard to please, not to say cranky. But who would blame them for this for a minute? Just as likely as not you and I will be cranky enough ourselves, when we have borne the burden of fourscore years, and are pretty well worn out in mind and spirit and body. But here was an old lady who was not worn out. Her hair was white with “the incomparable whiteness of aged hair,” and there were the indelible marks of age on the sweet, earnest face, but this dear old lady was “sunny.” She had had her own full share of sorrows and worries, and she had taken them all very much to heart—as people must whose hearts are big enough to take things to at all—and as tender as hearts really ought to be. But somehow or other, she had learned the secret of not being overcome by the worries and the sorrows, and so, sitting there knitting that peerless June morning, she and the sunshine together seemed to glorify everything about them.

“Oh! beg pardon, Brevet, I was so intent upon my knitting I had not noticed,” and she succeeded in foiling a smile that would at least have proved annoying; for, as every one about the place knew, the gold shoulder-straps, worn in imitation of a captain’s uniform in the army, meant but one thing, and that was that Captain Joe was coming down to carry Brevet-Captain up to Arlington for the day. Indeed at that moment a cheery “How’dy, Brevet!” rang out on the still morning air, and at the same moment a donkey and a two-wheeled cart driven by an old negro came to a stand at the gate.

“How’dy, Captain, I’m ready for you. Been expecting you ev’ry minute since breakfast. Good-bye, Grannana, take good care of yourself,” and a pair of chubby arms gave grandmamma just about as much of a hug as the old lady could bear up under.

“Good-mornin’, Miss Lindy,” said Captain Joe, stepping up to the gate and touching his cap deferentially. “I ’spose the little un tol’ you I’d like him up to Arlington fur de day if you could spare him.”

“No, Joe,” answered Mrs. Ellis, smiling, “Brevet does not think that necessary now-a-days. He simply dons the blue reefer with the shoulder-straps, and that means he has his orders for the day from his captain, and grandmammas are not expected to ask questions.” Brevet stood by, his hands upon his hips in most independent fashion, as much as to say, “That describes the case exactly.”

“Well, I reckon he don’ mean no harm, Miss Lindy,” said Joe, a little anxiously. “He’s dat much in earnest ’bout everythin’, dat he’s a Brevet-Cap’n sure ’nuff when he gets his straps on.” "Oh, that’s all right, Joe,”’ answered Mrs. Ellis, “but we’ll just send for you, if the day comes when we need to court-martial him for insubordination.”

Brevet did not at all understand this last remark, and so, touching his little blue cap in true soldier-fashion, turned on his heel and marched down to the donkey-cart as though in command of an army.

“Brevet,” said Joe seriously, as they jogged away from the gate, “You mus’ be ver’ careful ’bout bein’ spectful like to yo’ Grandnana, case if you don’ dere’s no tellin’ but any day yo’ Cap’n ’ll take away yo’ straps an’ den you’d jus’ be plain Marse Howard again I reckon.”

“Joe,” said Brevet solemnly, his voice trembling a little, “I could not bear it if you took away my straps,” and he laid a little brown hand protectingly upon one shoulder.

“Well, den you have a care, Honey, ‘bout Miss Lindy, an’ de nex’ time Joe invites you down to Arlington fur de day, you des ask yo’ Grandnana’s permission. Yo’re my Brevet-Cap’n sure ’nuff, but you’re yo’ Grandnana’s little pickaninny eb’ry day in de week, and don’ you forget it.”

“I’ll remember, Captain,” with most soldierlike submission, and then for awhile they drove along in silence. Happy thoughts of anticipation, however, soon chased the troubled look from Brevet’s little face, for there was nothing at all could compare with these occasional days spent with Joe at Arlington. It was owing to them that he had gained his dearly-loved title of Brevet and the blue soldier-cap and the shoulder-straps. Joe had been a member of a coloured regiment and had fought all through the war, and when at last he had come back and had settled down in his old cabin at Arlington, he was dubbed Captain, in recognition of his gallant services, by all the coloured folk of the neighbourhood. And Joe was by no means unworthy of the honour, for save for the fact that his regiment had been officered by white men, he might easily have risen to the command of a company. Time and time again in the face of the greatest danger he had been notoriously fearless, and had never in a single instance shown the white feather, which is more than can be said for many of his black comrades. And so from that time on it had been Captain Joe, and when some thirty years later little Howard Ellis came to make his home with his grandmother, and soon afterward came to know Joe, and to spend many a long summer day in his delightful company, what more natural than that the little fellow, with his great passion for everything military, should first aspire to some of the outward insignia, and then, having attained cap and shoulder-straps by favour of his grandmother, should later be dowered with the title of “Brevet-Captain,” by favour of Captain Joe himself?

The road from the Ellis homestead up to Arlington lies through the woods, and has all the charm of a road that has been left to follow its own way—and a sweet, wild way at that. There were no fences, either new or old, for none were needed. On each side a forest of oak, interspersed with an occasional maple or chestnut, stretched miles away, with seldom a glimpse of a clearing, while immediately bordering the road grew the veriest tangle of a natural hedge-row, abloom with some sort of sweet wild-flower from May to October. The original cut through the wood had been happily a wide one, and so sunshine and shower even, after all these years, still had abundant chance to slant this way and that across the road and coax every growing thing to perfection. Wood-violets, white and yellow and purple, peered out from under the taller growths of fern in the early springtime. June brought the sweet wild rose, unfolding bud after bud well into the summer, and the white berry-blossoms of the briars. With August came the berries themselves, ripening ungathered in riotous profusion, and following close upon them advance heralds of the goldenrod and the asters. It was in very truth a beautiful, dear old road, and it formed a beautiful setting for the little donkey-drawn cart slowly making its way along it. A pretty contrast, too, that of the old negro, still alert and sturdy notwithstanding his threescore years and ten, with the little golden-haired boy beside him. Together they seemed the embodiment of happy, confiding childhood and trustful, serene old age. On came the little cart, each of its occupants apparently intent upon his own thoughts, until at last Brevet commenced humming a sweet little refrain; very softly and slowly at first, as though not quite sure of his ground, then more distinctly as he felt himself master of the situation. Finally the refrain took to itself words; words that have since grown commonplace, but which had all the charm of novelty for Joe, and he listened with absorbed delight as Brevet sang cutely,—

“I’se a little Alabama Coon

And I hasn’t been born very long,

I ‘member seein’ a great big roun’ moon

I ’member hearin’ one sweet song;

When dey tote me down to de cotton-field,

Dar I roll and I tumble in de sun,

While my daddy pick de cotton mammy watch

me grow,

And dis am de song she sung:”

Brevet paused for the briefest part of a second to see how Joe was taking it.

“Go on, Honey, go on,” urged Joe.

“An’ dis am de song she sung:” repeated Brevet.

“Go to sleep my little pickaninny,

Br’er Fox’ll catch if yo’ don t;

Slumber on de bosom of yo’ ole Mammy Jinny

Mammy’s gwine to swatch yo’ if yo’ won’t.

Sh—Lu-la, lu-la lu-la lu-la lu!

Underneaf de silver Southern moon,

Rock-a-by, hush-a-by, Mammy’s little baby,

Mammy’s little Alabama Coon.”

"Again, Honey, again,” in a voice of actual command, so reluctant was Joe to have his keen enjoyment for one moment interrupted, and Brevet obeyed, keeping the air perfectly and singing with all his heart, too, as though himself a veritable little pickaninny, dwelling upon the many happy memories of babyhood in a cotton-field.

“I clar to yo’, Honey,” said Joe, his voice trembling with delight, “I can just see dat little baby. Seems ter me I neber done hear anythin’ so pretty, anythin’ dat fit each other like dat song an’ words. Whar eber did yo’ Tarn it, Honey?”

“Uncle Harry taught it to me, Joe.”

“Are der any more verses, Honey?”

“There’s one more, Joe, but Uncle Harry says it’s so ordinary it doesn’t belong with the first verse at all.”

“Well now, dat’s a pity,” said Joe, very regretfully, “but yo’ Uncle Harry he do beat all for gettin’ hol’ of sweet, catchin’ music an’ I kin des tell yo’, Honey, you done mus’ sing dat song to yo’ ole Cap’n eb’ry time we fin’ ourselves togedder fur half a shake of a lamb’s tail. Gib us yo’ han’ on it, Honey, dat you will.”

Brevet put his brown hand in Joe’s black one, his own face beaming with the pleasure he had given, and so the two boon companions jogged on, until, high on a hill before them, the pillars of a fine old house came into view, and a few moments later the donkey-cart drew up at a little cabin, just in the rear of the fine old house, a cabin that had been Joe’s home ever since he was as little a fellow as Brevet there beside him.

“I’ll look around while you put Jennie up,” explained Brevet, as soon as Joe had lifted him from the cart, and putting his hands in his pockets he walked up to the big house, straight through the hall, whose doors stood wide open, and out on to the porch in front. Brevet simply loved “to look around,” from that porch, and I do not think he ever stood there without his resolve to be a soldier some day surging up in a strong, new tide within him. Some of the rest of us, who are quite too old ever to think of being soldiers, and whose petticoats must at any age have stood in the way, know exactly how Brevet felt. You know, too, if you have ever been to Arlington, and, having been born and bred in these United States of ours, are the true little American you really ought to be. But in case you never have been to Arlington, and do not at all know why it should make you feel that you would like to be a soldier, then let me tell you before you have read another single line, that Arlington is the great National Cemetery, lying a few miles out from Washington, and where more than fifteen thousand soldiers lie buried. From the moment you enter the beautiful grounds, you see the low mounds stretching away on every side of you, and when you drive up in front of Arlington House itself, there is brave General Sheridan’s tomb right in front of you, so you cannot forget for a moment what a host of noble heroes they were, who fought in our great civil war thirty years ago, and how grand a thing it is lo be willing to lay down one’s life if need be, for the honour of one’s country. But perhaps you wonder that there should be a fine old house in a cemetery, and that Brevet should so love to go there, thinking a cemetery for your part rather sad and depressing, and wonder too why Joe should have chosen such a place for his home; all of which wonders it would take too much time to explain in this chapter, a chapter that was only meant to introduce you to Brevet and the Captain, so good-bye for just now to Arlington.