"It is related that in one of the far Northern States there is a lake of surpassing beauty. Upon the shores of that lake once lived a tribe of Indians. When the white man took possession of the country and forced the red man to follow the setting sun, this tribe refused to quit their home beside the placid lake. But the white man multiplied and coveted the beautiful dwelling place of the unfortunate children of the forest.

Unable to drive the invader off, and still determined not to leave the home which had been theirs through countless ages, the tribe assembled late one calm lovely day in June, and singing a sad, sweet dirge, marched down into the smiling waters and forever disappeared.

From that day to this, at nightfall of the quiet days of summer, plaintive music seems to issue from the waves of the lake as they gently lave the shore, thus serving as an eternal reminder of the fate of that Indian tribe.

So there is a plaintive music which seems to issue from the heroic deeds of Southern soldiers and Southern sailors, and that music forever heard by every true man of the South will serve as an eternal reminder of the gloriously unselfish patriotism of those who wore the gray."