_"The days of youth are the days of gladness."_
"Dear Mother," wrote Howard, "I forgot to write last week, but then
there wasn't the first thing to tell, so it don't matter. We're just
loafing here in camp waiting for the next move. We had a little scrap
with the Johnnies ten days ago, but it didn't come to anything on either
side. They are sulking in their tents and we are dittoing in ours. But
what I began this letter to tell is really funny, and I don't want to
forget to write it. The other day a slabsided old woman (you never did
see such a funny looking creature. She was worse than the mountaineer
class in Virginia, or even than those Hoosiers out there on that farm
near ours.) Well, she came to our camp from some place back in the
country and asked to see our 'doctor man.' She seemed to think there was
but 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 breakbone
fever,' and she had come to see if the Yankee doctor man wouldn't have
some kind of stuff that would cure him the first dose. These kinds of
folks think our officers and doctors are about omnipotent, because our
men are so much better fed and clothed and equipped than the Johnnies
are.
"'Ef yoh can't gimme sumpin' fer my ole man, doctah, he's jes boun' ter
die,' she kept saying over and over. Well, the doctor questioned her,
and came to the conclusion that a good sweat would be about the proper
caper to recommend, and he told her to cover him up well, and then
to take some sage--they all have that in the garden and mighty little
else--and, said he, 'take about so much and put it in something and then
measure out exactly one quart of water and boil it and pour over the
sage. Then make him drink it just as hot as he can. Now don't forget so
much 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 told
you--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 appeared
bright and early, and wanted that doctor man again. 'Well, my good
woman, I hope your husband is feeling a good deal easier after his
sweat. I----
"'Naw 'e hain't nuther. My ole man, he hain't scooped out on the inside
like 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 a
quat--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' swaller
hit, but the fust time he didn't git mo'n halft down till he hove the
hull of hit up agin. I went back and I medjured up thet there sage agin
an' the water an' tried him agin, but he hove her up _'fore_ he got
haift 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 man
er mine he don't _hold_ but a pint. I reckon you Yanks is scooped out
thinner than what we alls is.'
"We boys just yelled, but the poor soul loped off to her pint-measure
old man without seeing a bit of fun in it. She was mad as a wet hen when
the 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 impression
that she now suspects the Yankees of trying to burst her old man. I've
laughed over it all day, so I thought I'd write it to you, but it don't
seem 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 of
laurel root. I expect it is too big for her, but she can have some fun
with it I reckon. There isn't any more news, only one of our cannons
exploded the other day. It didn't do much damage. I'm not sure that I've
spelled some of these words right, but my unabridged is not handy and
I'm not sorry.
"I always hated to look for words. I wish you'd tell some of the town
boys to write to me. Letters go pretty good in camp and some fellows
get 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 ever
wrote in my life. I forgot to tell you to tell Aunt Judy I met a fellow
from Washington and he said the twins were in jail, but they were let
out to work on some Government intrenchments near by. I don't know what
they were in for. The fellow didn't know about our other niggers. Said
he thought Mark and Phillis were dead because he used to see them but
hadn't for a long time. Said Sallie worked for his mother sometimes and
that is how he knew so much about them. Two or three of the boys got
shot last night putting cartridges in the fire to monkey with the other
fellows. None of'em hit yours truly. My hand is plum woah out, as Aunt
Judy would say, holding this pen--and the thing has gone to walking on
one 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 home
grub.
"Foxy Leathers got a bully box last week. He gave me nearly half of
his fruit cake. The other boys didn't know he had one. They got
doughnuts--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 it
lasted it made merry the hearts of his mess. Howard said in one of his
letters that he was growing very tall. He said that the boys declared
that "if it had not been for his collar he would have been split all the
way up, as he had run chiefly to legs." Howard, however, expressed it
as his own unbiased opinion that it was jealousy of his ability to walk
over the fences that they had to climb which prompted the remark. "Foxy
has to climb for it and I put one leg over and then I put the other
over--and there you are," he said. Camp life agreed with him, and the
restraints of home no longer rasping his temper, he seemed to be the
gayest of the gay. Nothing troubled him. He slept and ate wherever and
whenever and whatever fell to his lot; lived each day as it came and
gave no thought to its successor. He counted up on his fingers when
he 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 the
impulse to do so urged him or because he cared especially to say
anything. He liked to get letters, but he knew he was sure of those from
home whether he wrote or not, and so his replies had that uncertainty of
date dependent upon luck. No sense of responsibility weighed upon him,
and his mother's anxiety impressed him--when he thought of it at all--as
a bit of womanish nonsense; natural enough for a woman, but all very
absurd. He had no deeper mental grasp upon it, and indeed the whole
ethical nature of this boy seemed embryonic; and so it was that his
camp life was the happiest he had ever known--the happiest he would ever
know.