. St. Nicholas [serial] . this time he was not with his command, but wason sick leave; and as it wasunsafe for him to stay at home,he had his tent at Foxville,about twenty miles away,sometimes coming to spenda night with his family. On this occasion he was ac-companied by a small body ofFederal soldiers who had cap-tured him a few hours scouts who had capturedhim had taken him to GeneralPatrick of the Federal army,who was now conducting himto his home. General Patrick and Col-onel Murray came up to theporch, where Mrs. Murraywas sitting with a Murray, after greet-ing
. St. Nicholas [serial] . this time he was not with his command, but wason sick leave; and as it wasunsafe for him to stay at home,he had his tent at Foxville,about twenty miles away,sometimes coming to spenda night with his family. On this occasion he was ac-companied by a small body ofFederal soldiers who had cap-tured him a few hours scouts who had capturedhim had taken him to GeneralPatrick of the Federal army,who was now conducting himto his home. General Patrick and Col-onel Murray came up to theporch, where Mrs. Murraywas sitting with a Murray, after greet-ing them, said: Mrs. Murray, allow meto introduce my old friend,General Patrick of the Fed-eral army. A friendly talk followed;and then General Patrick,about to go, turned to and said: Madam, I have a favor toask of you. What is it, general ? sheasked. That yon will keep Col-onel Murray here as my pris-oner. And, turning to his captive, he said, Now, Ned, stayat home. In a few minutes he was galloping away with his. I9°5-] ST. NICHOLAS LEAGUE. 66 This was not the only kindness shown to the South-ern colonel by the Northern general; for when ColonelMurray was able to return to his command, at a timewhen it was almost impossible to make an exchange ofprisoners, General Patrick effected his. One striking thing in this story is the friendshipwhich these West Point men held for each other, al-though their sense of duty had called them to oppositesides of our great civil struggle. MY LITTLE HOME. BY SUSAN WARREN WILBUR (AGE 12). It stands where western prairies sweep a thousand acres oer,Mid autumns waving grasses far as eye can see and more,—The only patch of woodland for many a weary mile,—The sweetest little farm-house, the quaintest country stile. T is a perfect little homestead,With clambring rose and vine, And a forest dense behind it —This little home of mine. The birds, those happy songsters, sing their myriad melodiesFrom joyous little nests within the lofty fo
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