old boy himself were after them, and it was then an easy matter to round them up and disarm them. The chiefs afterward confessed that they were scared out by the awful howling of the black soldiers.

"Ever since the war the United States navy has had a fair representation of Negro bluejackets, and they make first-class naval tars. There is not a ship in the navy to-day that hasn't from six to a dozen, anyhow, of Negroes on its muster rolls. The Negro sailors' names very rarely get enrolled on the bad conduct lists. They are obedient, sober men and good seamen. There are many petty officers among them.”—"The Planet."

THE CHARGE OF THE "NIGGER NINTH" ON SAN JUAN HILL.

BY GEORGE E. POWELL.

Hark! O'er the drowsy trooper's dream,
There comes a martial metal's scream,
That startles one and all!

It is the word, to wake, to die!
To hear the foeman's fierce defy!
To fling the column's battle-cry!
The "boots and saddles" call.

The shimmering steel, the glow of morn,
The rally-call of battle-horn,

Proclaim a day of carnage, born

For better or for ill.

Above the pictured tentage white,
Above the weapons glinting bright,
The day god casts a golden light
Across the San Juan Hill.

"Forward!" "Forward!" comes the cry,
As stalwart columns, ambling by,
Stride over graves that, waiting, lie
Undug in mother earth!

Their goal, the flag of fierce Castile
Above her serried ranks of steel,
Insensate to the cannon's peal

That gives the battle birth!

As brawn as black-a fearless foe;
Grave, grim and grand, they onward go,
To conquer or to die!

The rule of right; the march of might;
A dusky host from darker night,
Responsive to the morning light,

To work the martial will!

And o'er the trench and trembling earth,
The morn that gives the battle birth
Is on the San Juan Hill!

Hark! sounds again the bugle call!
Let ring the rifles over all,
To shriek above the battle-pall
The war-god's jubilee!

Their's, were bondmen, low, and long;
Their's, once weak against the strong;
Their's, to strike and stay the wrong,
That strangers might be free!

And on, and on, for weal or woe,
The tawny faces grimmer go,
That bade no mercy to a foe

That pities but to kill.

"Close up!" "Close up!" is heard, and said, And yet the rain of steel and lead Still leaves a livid trail of red

Upon the San Juan Hill!

“Charge!” “Charge!" The bugle peals again; 'Tis life or death for Roosevelt's men!

The Mausers make reply!

Aye! speechless are those swarthy sons,
Save for the clamor of the

Their only battle-cry!

guns

The lowly stain upon each face,

The taunt still fresh of prouder race,
But speeds the step that springs a-pace,
To succor or to die!

With rifles hot-to waist-band nude;
The brawn beside the pampered dude;
The cowboy king-one grave-and rude-
To shelter him who falls!

One breast-and bare,-howe'er begot,
The low, the high-one common lot:
The world's distinction all forgot
When Freedom's bugle calls!

No faltering step, no fitful start;
None seeking less than all his part;
One watchword springing from each heart,-
Yet on, and onward still!

Charge on San Juan Hill.

The sullen sound of tramp and tread;
Abe Lincoln's flag still overhead;
They followed where the angels led
The way, up San Juan Hill!

And where the life stream ebbs and flows,
And stains the track of trenchant blows
That met no meaner steel,

The bated breath-the battle yell-
The turf in slippery crimson, tell
Where Castile's proudest colors fell
With wounds that never heal!

Where every trooper found a wreath
Of glory for his sabre sheath;

And earned the laurels well;
With feet to field and face to foe,
In lines of battle lying low,

The sable soldiers fell!

And where the black and brawny breast
Gave up its all-life's richest, best,
To find the tomb's eternal rest

A dream of freedom still!

A groundless creed was swept away,
With brand of "coward"-a time-worn say—
And he blazed the path, a better way

Up the side of San Juan Hill!

For black or white, on the scroll of fame,
The blood of the hero dyes the same;
And ever, ever will!

Sleep, trooper, sleep; thy sable brow,
Amid the living laurel now,

Is wound in wreaths of fame!
Nor need the graven granite stone,
To tell of garlands all thine own—
To hold a soldier's name!

[In the city of New Orleans, in 1866, two thousand two hundred and sixty-six ex-slaves were recruited for the service. None but the largest and blackest Negroes were accepted. From these were formed the Twenty-fourth and Twenty-fifth Infantry, and the Ninth and Tenth Cavalry. All four are famous fighting regiments, and the two cavalry commands have earned the proudest distinction. But the record of the Ninth Cavalry, better known as the "Nigger Ninth," in its thirty-two years of service in the Indian wars, in the military history of the border stands without a peer and is, without exception, the most famous fighting regiment in the United States service.]