Franklin is the son of John Milton HAWKINS (bn: 28th of February 1796 in Bath Co., Kentucky) and Mary 'Polly' GRAHAM ROLSTON (bn: 21st of June 1804 in Bourbon Co., Kentucky). Franklin was a Confederate Soldier in the Civil War. He enlisted in the Army in Carroll Co., Tennessee: Company 'G' 12th Consolidated Inf.
Inscription on tombstone: Born near this place Aug. 7, 1838
He was a Confederate Soldier & fell in the battle of Harrisburg, Miss. July 13, and died July 14, 1864
Excerpt from "War Leafs" by Annie Cole Hawkins
[Annie writes about her friend, Franklin Hawkins]
There is no time in the memory of those days which rise before me with a more pleasant yet sad recollection than one day when Frank, my favorite friend, proposed to teach me to shoot a pistol. He, a gentleman, always first asked my mother's permission. With her consent we went a little way beyond the gate near the bars which opened to a pond where the horses were led to drink. Frank placed a mark on one of the bars then put the pistol in my hand, stood me round and told me how to proceed. I took aim and blazed away. Didn't hit the mark, of course, but buried the ball in the high post and thought I had done well to strike anything belonging to the bars. He laughed merrily, took the weapon of war, stood by me and shot another ball in the same cavity making a large hole in the post. I tried one more time and hit a spot somewhere in the wheat field beyond. Then he gave me up as a poor scholar. He was to go away on the next day to ride back to war and to death.
We leaned over the rough bars for a quiet talk, he standing with a certain grace of his own, his clean blue eyes sparkling softening as he told of past adventures and pleasures while the setting sun threw a golden sheen on the waves of his soft light hair falling from under the soldier cap pushed back on his handsome head. The sun was nearly down. The brawny black boys came and let down the bars to water the horses. All sound seemed to soften under the glow of that beautiful red sunset. We looked again at the bullet hole we had made in the post. Then he looking gently down at me, said, "Sometime when I am gone back home or perhaps killed by a Yankee bullet, you will stop and look at this to remember me and this pleasant day". We turned and walked back to the house. There was a sadness in every sound. A Negro voice singing away off in the distance seemed to send a wail that threw a gloom of dreadful fear over me and Frank was singing the song he loved best in a low sad voice. "The Moon on The Lea", nothing seemed more appropriate in those days than the words in the last verse of that favorite old song.
Warm hearts were not made for the day, love,
They pine when the stars fade away,love,
I'd feast on the night while I may, love,
Who knows what the morrow may bring.
Friends may be parted
The nearest ties may be broken.
The dreariest cold death may come
And sever the hopes
That round us cling.
Our soldier bade us a last goodbye next day. I remember he crossed the hall and looked out the backyard. He said to take a view of his home for it might be the last. We watched him ride away down the lane and through the grove out of sight forever. Many times I stopped to look on the old post to think of the past even in the few short weeks of his life and years after when our old home had passed into the hands of strangers and houses being built over the dear old familiar roads and walks. I saw it again off from the roadside leaning with age. The rains and storms of many winters had rotted and enlarged the little bullet hole. So large the pretty blue birds played in and out and built a nest little knowing the history of their quiet cozy little house...
[Annie later marries Franklin's younger brother Camillus Hawkins (1845-1908) ~ Joe Anna COLE to Camillus HAWKINS on the 12th day of November 1868 in Carroll County, Tennessee. Solemnized by Warner MOON, Minister of the Gospel]
Inscription on tombstone: Born near this place Aug. 7, 1838
He was a Confederate Soldier & fell in the battle of Harrisburg, Miss. July 13, and died July 14, 1864
Excerpt from "War Leafs" by Annie Cole Hawkins
[Annie writes about her friend, Franklin Hawkins]
There is no time in the memory of those days which rise before me with a more pleasant yet sad recollection than one day when Frank, my favorite friend, proposed to teach me to shoot a pistol. He, a gentleman, always first asked my mother's permission. With her consent we went a little way beyond the gate near the bars which opened to a pond where the horses were led to drink. Frank placed a mark on one of the bars then put the pistol in my hand, stood me round and told me how to proceed. I took aim and blazed away. Didn't hit the mark, of course, but buried the ball in the high post and thought I had done well to strike anything belonging to the bars. He laughed merrily, took the weapon of war, stood by me and shot another ball in the same cavity making a large hole in the post. I tried one more time and hit a spot somewhere in the wheat field beyond. Then he gave me up as a poor scholar. He was to go away on the next day to ride back to war and to death.
We leaned over the rough bars for a quiet talk, he standing with a certain grace of his own, his clean blue eyes sparkling softening as he told of past adventures and pleasures while the setting sun threw a golden sheen on the waves of his soft light hair falling from under the soldier cap pushed back on his handsome head. The sun was nearly down. The brawny black boys came and let down the bars to water the horses. All sound seemed to soften under the glow of that beautiful red sunset. We looked again at the bullet hole we had made in the post. Then he looking gently down at me, said, "Sometime when I am gone back home or perhaps killed by a Yankee bullet, you will stop and look at this to remember me and this pleasant day". We turned and walked back to the house. There was a sadness in every sound. A Negro voice singing away off in the distance seemed to send a wail that threw a gloom of dreadful fear over me and Frank was singing the song he loved best in a low sad voice. "The Moon on The Lea", nothing seemed more appropriate in those days than the words in the last verse of that favorite old song.
Warm hearts were not made for the day, love,
They pine when the stars fade away,love,
I'd feast on the night while I may, love,
Who knows what the morrow may bring.
Friends may be parted
The nearest ties may be broken.
The dreariest cold death may come
And sever the hopes
That round us cling.
Our soldier bade us a last goodbye next day. I remember he crossed the hall and looked out the backyard. He said to take a view of his home for it might be the last. We watched him ride away down the lane and through the grove out of sight forever. Many times I stopped to look on the old post to think of the past even in the few short weeks of his life and years after when our old home had passed into the hands of strangers and houses being built over the dear old familiar roads and walks. I saw it again off from the roadside leaning with age. The rains and storms of many winters had rotted and enlarged the little bullet hole. So large the pretty blue birds played in and out and built a nest little knowing the history of their quiet cozy little house...
[Annie later marries Franklin's younger brother Camillus Hawkins (1845-1908) ~ Joe Anna COLE to Camillus HAWKINS on the 12th day of November 1868 in Carroll County, Tennessee. Solemnized by Warner MOON, Minister of the Gospel]
Franklin is the son of John Milton HAWKINS (bn: 28th of February 1796 in Bath Co., Kentucky) and Mary 'Polly' GRAHAM ROLSTON (bn: 21st of June 1804 in Bourbon Co., Kentucky). Franklin was a Confederate Soldier in the Civil War. He enlisted in the Army in Carroll Co., Tennessee: Company 'G' 12th Consolidated Inf.
Inscription on tombstone: Born near this place Aug. 7, 1838
He was a Confederate Soldier & fell in the battle of Harrisburg, Miss. July 13, and died July 14, 1864
Excerpt from "War Leafs" by Annie Cole Hawkins
[Annie writes about her friend, Franklin Hawkins]
There is no time in the memory of those days which rise before me with a more pleasant yet sad recollection than one day when Frank, my favorite friend, proposed to teach me to shoot a pistol. He, a gentleman, always first asked my mother's permission. With her consent we went a little way beyond the gate near the bars which opened to a pond where the horses were led to drink. Frank placed a mark on one of the bars then put the pistol in my hand, stood me round and told me how to proceed. I took aim and blazed away. Didn't hit the mark, of course, but buried the ball in the high post and thought I had done well to strike anything belonging to the bars. He laughed merrily, took the weapon of war, stood by me and shot another ball in the same cavity making a large hole in the post. I tried one more time and hit a spot somewhere in the wheat field beyond. Then he gave me up as a poor scholar. He was to go away on the next day to ride back to war and to death.
We leaned over the rough bars for a quiet talk, he standing with a certain grace of his own, his clean blue eyes sparkling softening as he told of past adventures and pleasures while the setting sun threw a golden sheen on the waves of his soft light hair falling from under the soldier cap pushed back on his handsome head. The sun was nearly down. The brawny black boys came and let down the bars to water the horses. All sound seemed to soften under the glow of that beautiful red sunset. We looked again at the bullet hole we had made in the post. Then he looking gently down at me, said, "Sometime when I am gone back home or perhaps killed by a Yankee bullet, you will stop and look at this to remember me and this pleasant day". We turned and walked back to the house. There was a sadness in every sound. A Negro voice singing away off in the distance seemed to send a wail that threw a gloom of dreadful fear over me and Frank was singing the song he loved best in a low sad voice. "The Moon on The Lea", nothing seemed more appropriate in those days than the words in the last verse of that favorite old song.
Warm hearts were not made for the day, love,
They pine when the stars fade away,love,
I'd feast on the night while I may, love,
Who knows what the morrow may bring.
Friends may be parted
The nearest ties may be broken.
The dreariest cold death may come
And sever the hopes
That round us cling.
Our soldier bade us a last goodbye next day. I remember he crossed the hall and looked out the backyard. He said to take a view of his home for it might be the last. We watched him ride away down the lane and through the grove out of sight forever. Many times I stopped to look on the old post to think of the past even in the few short weeks of his life and years after when our old home had passed into the hands of strangers and houses being built over the dear old familiar roads and walks. I saw it again off from the roadside leaning with age. The rains and storms of many winters had rotted and enlarged the little bullet hole. So large the pretty blue birds played in and out and built a nest little knowing the history of their quiet cozy little house...
[Annie later marries Franklin's younger brother Camillus Hawkins (1845-1908) ~ Joe Anna COLE to Camillus HAWKINS on the 12th day of November 1868 in Carroll County, Tennessee. Solemnized by Warner MOON, Minister of the Gospel]
Inscription on tombstone: Born near this place Aug. 7, 1838
He was a Confederate Soldier & fell in the battle of Harrisburg, Miss. July 13, and died July 14, 1864
Excerpt from "War Leafs" by Annie Cole Hawkins
[Annie writes about her friend, Franklin Hawkins]
There is no time in the memory of those days which rise before me with a more pleasant yet sad recollection than one day when Frank, my favorite friend, proposed to teach me to shoot a pistol. He, a gentleman, always first asked my mother's permission. With her consent we went a little way beyond the gate near the bars which opened to a pond where the horses were led to drink. Frank placed a mark on one of the bars then put the pistol in my hand, stood me round and told me how to proceed. I took aim and blazed away. Didn't hit the mark, of course, but buried the ball in the high post and thought I had done well to strike anything belonging to the bars. He laughed merrily, took the weapon of war, stood by me and shot another ball in the same cavity making a large hole in the post. I tried one more time and hit a spot somewhere in the wheat field beyond. Then he gave me up as a poor scholar. He was to go away on the next day to ride back to war and to death.
We leaned over the rough bars for a quiet talk, he standing with a certain grace of his own, his clean blue eyes sparkling softening as he told of past adventures and pleasures while the setting sun threw a golden sheen on the waves of his soft light hair falling from under the soldier cap pushed back on his handsome head. The sun was nearly down. The brawny black boys came and let down the bars to water the horses. All sound seemed to soften under the glow of that beautiful red sunset. We looked again at the bullet hole we had made in the post. Then he looking gently down at me, said, "Sometime when I am gone back home or perhaps killed by a Yankee bullet, you will stop and look at this to remember me and this pleasant day". We turned and walked back to the house. There was a sadness in every sound. A Negro voice singing away off in the distance seemed to send a wail that threw a gloom of dreadful fear over me and Frank was singing the song he loved best in a low sad voice. "The Moon on The Lea", nothing seemed more appropriate in those days than the words in the last verse of that favorite old song.
Warm hearts were not made for the day, love,
They pine when the stars fade away,love,
I'd feast on the night while I may, love,
Who knows what the morrow may bring.
Friends may be parted
The nearest ties may be broken.
The dreariest cold death may come
And sever the hopes
That round us cling.
Our soldier bade us a last goodbye next day. I remember he crossed the hall and looked out the backyard. He said to take a view of his home for it might be the last. We watched him ride away down the lane and through the grove out of sight forever. Many times I stopped to look on the old post to think of the past even in the few short weeks of his life and years after when our old home had passed into the hands of strangers and houses being built over the dear old familiar roads and walks. I saw it again off from the roadside leaning with age. The rains and storms of many winters had rotted and enlarged the little bullet hole. So large the pretty blue birds played in and out and built a nest little knowing the history of their quiet cozy little house...
[Annie later marries Franklin's younger brother Camillus Hawkins (1845-1908) ~ Joe Anna COLE to Camillus HAWKINS on the 12th day of November 1868 in Carroll County, Tennessee. Solemnized by Warner MOON, Minister of the Gospel]
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