An Unofficial Patriot Page 20

  CHAPTER XX.

  _"The days of youth are the days of gladness."_

  "Dear Mother," wrote Howard, "I forgot to write last week, but thenthere wasn't the first thing to tell, so it don't matter. We're justloafing here in camp waiting for the next move. We had a little scrapwith the Johnnies ten days ago, but it didn't come to anything on eitherside. They are sulking in their tents and we are dittoing in ours. Butwhat I began this letter to tell is really funny, and I don't want toforget to write it. The other day a slabsided old woman (you never didsee such a funny looking creature. She was worse than the mountaineerclass in Virginia, or even than those Hoosiers out there on that farmnear ours.) Well, she came to our camp from some place back in thecountry and asked to see our 'doctor man.' She seemed to think there wasbut one.

  "One of the surgeons had a talk with her, and it turned out that her'ole man,' as she called her husband, was 'mighty bad off with breakbonefever,' and she had come to see if the Yankee doctor man wouldn't havesome kind of stuff that would cure him the first dose. These kinds offolks think our officers and doctors are about omnipotent, because ourmen are so much better fed and clothed and equipped than the Johnniesare.

  "'Ef yoh can't gimme sumpin' fer my ole man, doctah, he's jes boun' terdie,' she kept saying over and over. Well, the doctor questioned her,and came to the conclusion that a good sweat would be about the propercaper to recommend, and he told her to cover him up well, and thento take some sage--they all have that in the garden and mighty littleelse--and, said he, 'take about so much and put it in something and thenmeasure out exactly one quart of water and boil it and pour over thesage. Then make him drink it just as hot as he can. Now don't forget somuch sage and exactly a quart of water.'

  "'Yeh think thet's agoin't' cuah (cure) my ole man, doctah?' says she.

  "'I think it is the best thing for him now. Be sure to make it as I toldyou--so much sage and a quart of water.'

  "'You kin bet I'll fix her up all right, doctah, ef thet's a goin't'cuah my ole man.' Then she tramped back home. The next day she appearedbright and early, and wanted that doctor man again. 'Well, my goodwoman, I hope your husband is feeling a good deal easier after hissweat. I----

  "'Naw 'e hain't nuther. My ole man, he hain't scooped out on the insidelike you Yanks is, I reckon.'

  "She looked pretty worried. 'How's that? How's that?' asked the doctor.

  "'Wal,' says she, 'I jest hoofed hit home es quick es ever I could, an'I tuck an' medjured out thet there sage an' the water--jest edzactly aquat--an' I fixed her up an tuck hit t' the ole man. I riz his head up,mister--fer he's powerful weak--an' he done his plum best t' swallerhit, but the fust time he didn't git mo'n halft down till he hove thehull of hit up agin. I went back and I medjured up thet there sage aginan' the water an' tried him agin, but he hove her up _'fore_ he gothaift down. But I never stopped till I tries her agin, an' that time,doctah, he didn't _git_ halft down. Now, doctah, thet there ole maner mine he don't _hold_ but a pint. I reckon you Yanks is scooped outthinner than what we alls is.'

  "We boys just yelled, but the poor soul loped off to her pint-measureold man without seeing a bit of fun in it. She was mad as a wet hen whenthe doctor told her she needn't make him drink it all at one fell swoop.She vowed he had told her that the first time, and it's my impressionthat she now suspects the Yankees of trying to burst her old man. I'velaughed over it all day, so I thought I'd write it to you, but it don'tseem half so funny in writing as it was to hear it.

  "Give little Margaret this ring I put in. I cut it out of a piece oflaurel root. I expect it is too big for her, but she can have some funwith it I reckon. There isn't any more news, only one of our cannonsexploded the other day. It didn't do much damage. I'm not sure that I'vespelled some of these words right, but my unabridged is not handy andI'm not sorry.

  "I always hated to look for words. I wish you'd tell some of the townboys to write to me. Letters go pretty good in camp and some fellowsget a lot. I don't get many. It's hard to answer them if you get many,though, so I don't know which is worst. This is the longest one I everwrote in my life. I forgot to tell you to tell Aunt Judy I met a fellowfrom Washington and he said the twins were in jail, but they were letout to work on some Government intrenchments near by. I don't know whatthey were in for. The fellow didn't know about our other niggers. Saidhe thought Mark and Phillis were dead because he used to see them buthadn't for a long time. Said Sallie worked for his mother sometimes andthat is how he knew so much about them. Two or three of the boys gotshot last night putting cartridges in the fire to monkey with the otherfellows. None of'em hit yours truly. My hand is plum woah out, as AuntJudy would say, holding this pen--and the thing has gone to walking onone leg. I guess I broke the point off the other side jabbing at a fly.Good-bye. Write soon,

  "Howard,

  "P.S.--I forgot to say I am well, and send love. I wish I had some homegrub.

  "Foxy Leathers got a bully box last week. He gave me nearly half ofhis fruit cake. The other boys didn't know he had one. They gotdoughnuts--but even doughnuts are a lot better than the grub we get. H."

  The box of "home grub," was speedily packed and sent, and while itlasted it made merry the hearts of his mess. Howard said in one of hisletters that he was growing very tall. He said that the boys declaredthat "if it had not been for his collar he would have been split all theway up, as he had run chiefly to legs." Howard, however, expressed itas his own unbiased opinion that it was jealousy of his ability to walkover the fences that they had to climb which prompted the remark. "Foxyhas to climb for it and I put one leg over and then I put the otherover--and there you are," he said. Camp life agreed with him, and therestraints of home no longer rasping his temper, he seemed to be thegayest of the gay. Nothing troubled him. He slept and ate wherever andwhenever and whatever fell to his lot; lived each day as it came andgave no thought to its successor. He counted up on his fingers whenhe wrote home last, and tried to remember to write about once a week,because his mother begged that he would, and not at all because theimpulse to do so urged him or because he cared especially to sayanything. He liked to get letters, but he knew he was sure of those fromhome whether he wrote or not, and so his replies had that uncertainty ofdate dependent upon luck. No sense of responsibility weighed upon him,and his mother's anxiety impressed him--when he thought of it at all--asa bit of womanish nonsense; natural enough for a woman, but all veryabsurd. He had no deeper mental grasp upon it, and indeed the wholeethical nature of this boy seemed embryonic; and so it was that hiscamp life was the happiest he had ever known--the happiest he would everknow.