He was that
formidable phenomenon, a dreamer of action. But he possessed a sovran
good sense. Food and rest and clean clothes were his scrupulous
preparation for his visits. He always assumed as cheerful an appearance
as possible. Armed with bright new five-cent and ten-cent bills (the
wounded, he found, were often "broke," and the sight of a little money
"helped their spirits"), with books and stationery and tobacco, for one a
twist of good strong green tea, for another a good home-made
rice-pudding, or a jar of sparkling but innocent blackberry and cherry
syrup, a small bottle of horse-radish pickle, or a large handsome apple,
he would "make friends." "What I have I also give you," he cried from the
bottom of his grieved, tempestuous heart. He would talk, or write
letters--passionate love-letters, too--or sit silent, in mute and tender
kindness. "Long, long, I gazed ... leaning my chin in my hands, passing
sweet hours, immortal and mystic hours, with you, dearest comrade--not a
tear, not a word, Vigil of silence, love and death, vigil for you my son
and my soldier." And how many a mother must have blessed the stranger who
could bring such last news of a son as this: "And now like many other
noble and good men, after serving his country as a soldier, he has
yielded up his young life at the very outset in her service.
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