"Extra! Peace! Victory! Lee has surrendered!"
At last the end had come.
The great North, with its millions of sturdy people and their exhaustless resources, had greeted the first shot on Sumter with contempt and incredulity. A few regiments went forward for a month's outing to settle the trouble. The Thirteenth Brooklyn marched gayly Southward on a thirty days' jaunt, with pieces of rope conspicuously tied to their muskets with which to bring back each man a Southern prisoner to be led in a noose through the streets on their early triumphant return! It would be unkind to tell what became of those ropes when they suddenly started back home ahead of the scheduled time from the first battle of Bull Run.
People from the South, equally wise, marched gayly North, to whip five Yankees each before breakfast, and encountered unforeseen difficulties.
Both sides had things to learn, and learned them in a school whose logic is final—a four years' course in the University of Hell—the scream of eagles, the howl of wolves, the bay of tigers, the roar of lions—all locked in Death's embrace, and each mad scene lit by the glare of volcanoes of savage passions!
But the long agony was over.
The city bells began to ring. The guns of the forts joined the chorus, and their deep steel throats roared until the earth trembled.
Just across the street a mother who was reading the fateful news turned and suddenly clasped a boy to her
