"I know I'm only a boy, father, and not big enough to fight for you, or
by your side like a soldier, but I could load."
He smiled and leaned toward me, and patted my shoulder.
"I beg your pardon, George," he said, kindly. "I ought not to have
spoken as I did. You are only a boy, and while you are a boy I pray
heaven that you may enjoy a boy's happy life, and that we may be free
from all the troubles that are threatening. I am a soldier, and I have
fought in the service of my country."
"Yes," I said, proudly, "I know. Morgan has often told me."
"Morgan ought to hold his tongue, and not put vain notions into your
head."
"But he said it was glorious, father."
He looked at me sadly, and sighed.
"I am a soldier, George," he said; "but I am afraid that I have very
little belief in what people call glory. In too many cases the
brilliancy of the glory is dulled with blood and horror too terrible to
be spoken of without a shudder. It is glorious to fight in defence of
your country, its women and children, or to fight here for our homes;
and while I have strength to lift a sword, or voice and knowledge to
lead and direct others in such a cause, I will, if it is necessary,
fight again. But after what I have been through and seen, I am ready to
go down on my knees and pray the God of love and peace and mercy that
neither I nor you may ever see sword flashed or shot fired in anger
while we live."