This is the one picture that has been ever before my eyes, even in the
wild regions of Nevada and the undulating lawns and woody slopes of
California. In the snow-clad forests of the Sierra Nevada, and even in
the tropical glory of sky and air in Arizona, amid the noise and bustle
of the camp, with heavenly peace and loveliness above, and murderous
savages, thirsting for our blood lying in deadly ambush all around, I
still have seen this picture. A dead man lying with his face to the
earth; while close by his side one little spot of dust seems blackened
and congealed by blood.
And afterwards? The sunshine steals softly and furtively through the
darkened windows of a happy Northern home. It is June, and the perfume
of the roses is on the air. In an easy-chair half sits, half reclines,
a pale girl, with a happy face, looking down with a perfect smile at
Tom, who sits at her feet. And near by stands a nurse, holding in her
arms a baby,――a baby whose two gelatinous arms beat the air wildly,
while his voice is raised in a shrill note, which may be triumph or
which may be agony.
“By Jove!” Tom says admiringly, “his high notes are stunning; ar’n’t
they, Nettie?”
“Tom,” replies Nettie, threateningly, “dare to make fun of your
offspring again, and we will leave you, and start for Indiana. Won’t
we, Baby?”
To this question, reply is given by an absurd inclination of the head
on one side and another wheezy shriek.
“I am not laughing, I am not laughing,” Tom hastens to remark, lest the
threat of Indiana should be repeated; “so don’t get angry, Baby. I say,
Nettie, we must have a name for him. We can’t call him Baby all the
time, you know.”
“He was named long ago, Tom,” said Nettie, “though of course I had to
wait. We must call him ‘Ned;’ we couldn’t call him by any other name.”
“Thank you, darling,” said Tom, gravely; “that is the way you make me
love you more and more every day.” And he kisses his wife, and, rising,
takes the baby and looks on its face, while his eyes are filled with
tears.
* * * * *
And afterwards? The Professor’s room at Harvard is still as it was
when we first knew it, with the photograph still hanging over the
mantel-piece. And the Professor sits there gazing at it more lonely now
than ever before. He is growing quite old; he is very sarcastic and
astonishing; and dreadful stories are current among the students in
regard to his severity against culprits in the meetings of the Faculty.
There are two or three who know him, and to whom he is very kind. They
heard him tell the story of his boys, and they heard poor Ned’s last
letter. But the Professor declared then that he should never speak of
the subject again; and the few who heard him saw that the rest of his
life must be sad. And now, as he takes up the notes and emendations of
his old lecture on “Domestic Arts,” whose turn has come again, his eye
falls on the picture. Again it is the spring weather, again the fresh
breeze enters his room. He rises and walks to the window.
“I wonder if he is near,” he says, half aloud. “‘It was in such a
season and at such a time, that I last saw the dear old place; and, if
ever I can be on earth again, it is there that I should wish to be.’
Poor Ned! Poor Ned!”
And, as he sits in his chair again, the picture fades from my view, and
I see only the moonlight on our mountain camp, and hear the wailing of
the western wind.
And afterwards? Once more the country is intact, freed from the deadly
perils which assailed her. We know now what the words “our country”
mean,――rocks which the Atlantic lashes with its spray; broad uplands
and vast prairies where almost spontaneously fruit and grain seem to
spring forth from the rich soil; and barren hills as well, with only
the sage-brush for vegetation, within whose secret treasure-houses lie
great masses of gold and silver ore. From the summits of the Sierra
Nevada you can stand at midsummer in a forest where wreaths of snow lie
on the trees, and can gaze far down into valleys, thousands of feet
beneath, where there are rippling streamlets, and masses of flowers of
the most brilliant and the most delicate hues. This wonderful country,
that is still in its infancy, that is nursing men of every nation to
form a new nation; this country, that, with all its imperfections,
stands now on the grand basis of universal freedom,――justifies not
merely enthusiasm, but any loss of human life which may aid in its
preservation. These friends, these brothers, knew what was the true
meaning of life, and with that knowledge, gained by zeal and study,
offered their lives as a sacrifice. Woe to our country should the great
debt owed to these heroes be ever forgotten!
“May God forbid that yet,
Or in all time to come, we should their names forget!
May every spring-time’s hours
See their graves strewn with flowers,
To show that still remembered is our debt!”
* * * * *
Transcriber’s Notes:
――Text in italics is enclosed by underscores (_italics_).
――Punctuation and spelling inaccuracies were silently corrected.
――Archaic and variable spelling has been preserved.
――Variations in hyphenation and compound words have been preserved.