I could not bear to think that these graves should ever be disturbed, only as friend after friend searching here should find the remains of the dear son, or brother, or comrade, and with reverent hands gather them up, the dust and bones, and bear them away to the home grave-yard, to sleep under their native sod.
It seems a desecration to disturb in any other way the bones of a dead soldier. Let them sleep in the trenches, where the hands of comrades laid them down after the bloody fight was over, and piled the sod sorrowfully over the bleeding breast. Let them sleep in the solitary graves where they were laid when they dropped out of the line in weary marches, and the solemn wind playing through the tall trees which overshadow the lone graves shall seem a requiem forever chanted over the fallen hero. Wherever they found sepulchre, by light of the pale spectral moon-beams, or where the rain dropped sorrowfully into their shallow beds, there let the soldier await the sounding of the last trump.
The embalming tent had always been a place of interest to me. I had obtained many a garment from the Christian Commission with which to replace the dirty, ragged ones in which the soldier died—for I felt it a duty to soften as much as possible the shock of the return of him who went out so full of pride and hope.
There were often delays in sending for the embalmed dead, and one soldier's remains lay for three months within the tent. His name was Thomas, and I was beside him when he died. I used to go to his
