WARM HEARTS IN FROZEN BODIES.
"A lady in one of the hospitals of the west was much attracted by two young men, lying side by side, all splintered and bandaged, so that they could not move hand or foot, but so cheerful and happy looking, that she said,--
""Why, boys, you are looking very bright to-day."
""O, yes," they replied, "we"re all right now; we"ve been turned this morning."
"And she found that for six long weeks they had lain in one position, and for the first time that morning had been moved to the other side of their cot.
""And were you among those poor boys who were left lying where you fell, that bitter cold morning, till you froze fast to the ground?"
""Yes, ma"am; we were lying there two days. You know they had no time to attend to us. They had to go and take the fort."
""And didn"t you think it was very cruel in them to leave you there to suffer so long?" she inquired.
""Why, no, ma"am; we wanted them to go and take the fort."
""But when it was taken, you were in too great agony to know or care for it?"
""O, no, ma"am," they replied, with flashing eyes. "There was a whole lot of us wounded fellows on the hill-side, watching to see if they would get the fort; and when we saw they had it, every one of us who had a whole arm, or leg, waved it in the air, and hurrahed till the air rang again.""
This is from a letter by Miss M. E. Breckenbridge, a lady who laid down her life for the sick soldiers.
PUDDING AND MILK.
Under Dr. Vanderkieft"s supervision, in Sedgwick"s corps, there was one of the n.o.blest self-sacrificing women of the army of the Potomac. This lady was unwearied in her efforts for the good of the soldiers.
While at Smoketown Hospital, there was a poor, emaciated soldier, whose weak and pitiable condition attracted her attention. He could retain nothing on his stomach. Mrs. Lee--for that was the lady--had tried all the various dishes for which the meagre hospital supplies afforded materials, but nothing afforded the patient relief and nourishment, until one day, in overhauling the stores, she found a quant.i.ty of Indian corn meal.
"O, I have found a prize," she cried, in delight.
"What is it?" inquired the little fellow detailed as orderly.
"Indian meal," was her reply.
"Pshaw! I thought you had found a bag of dollars."
"Better than dollars. Bring it along." And she hastened away to the tent where lay her poor patient.
"Sanburn," said she,--for that was the invalid"s name,--"could you eat some mush?"
"I don"t know what that is. I don"t like any of your fancy dishes."
"Why, it"s pudding and milk," said a boy on the next cot.
"O, yes," exclaimed the starving soldier. "I think I could eat a bucket full of pudding and milk."
Mrs. Lee was not long in giving him an opportunity for the trial. She at first brought him a small quant.i.ty, with some sweet milk, and to her joy, as well as that of the lean, hungry patient, it suited him. He ate it three times a day, and recovered. Indeed, the sack of meal was worth more than a sack of dollars, as she had said.
As strange as this may seem, there are instances on record where very remarkable, yea, absurd articles of diet have cured where medicine failed.
SMALL BEER.
The Earl of Bath, when he was Mr. Pulteney, was very sick of the pleuristic fever, in Staffordshire. Doctor after doctor had been called down from London, till his secretary had paid out the sum of three thousand seven hundred and fifty dollars. The last two physicians had given him up. "He must die," said Drs. Friend and Broxholm. They, however prescribed some simple remedies, and were about to leave, when the invalid, just alive, was heard to mutter, "Small beer."
"He asks for small beer," said the attendants. "Shall we give him some?"
"Yes, give him "small beer," or anything," replied the doctors.
A great two-quart silver pitcher full was brought, and he drank the whole contents, and demanded more. The request was granted, and, after drinking the gallon, he fell asleep, perspired freely, and recovered.
THE POETICAL AND AMUSING SIDE.
There is a poetical side, as well as a prosy side, to the camp and hospital. The following effusion of confusion was sent to the writer by a brother who gave his life for his country. It was written by a rebel soldier, who never realized his dream, and doubtless his "Amelia" mourns his loss as sincerely as though he had fought in a better cause.
TO AMELIA.
1. O, come, my love, and go away to the land up north; for there, they say, it"s rite good picketin" for rebel boys. And we"ll take the land, and sweep the band of New Yorkers into the bay.
2. I"ve heered of Delmonico"s, and Barnum"s Shows, and how many hotels the land only knows. And we"ll steer our bark for Centre Park. Here"s a health to ourselves, and away she goes. (Here I drank.)
3. Then come with your knight so true, and down with the boys that"s dressed in blue. Farewell to hoe-cake an" hominy, Richmond and Montgomery.
I"ll lick the d.a.m.n Yankees, an" marry you.
4. Here"s a heart, I reckon, as firm"s a rock; no truer ever beat neath a gray or blue frock. So come, my love, and haste away. We"ll moor our bark in New York Bay, when I end this fighting work.
Your true lover, J. PARSLOE.
The next has been in print, and was written by Major McKnight, while a prisoner. "He was a poet, musician, and joker, and used to run from grave to gay, from lively to severe, on almost all mottoes. He was an especial favorite with his guard, the Union boys."
MY LOVE AND I.
My love reposes in a rosewood frame; A bunk have I; A couch of feath"ry down fills up the same; Mine"s straw, but dry.
She sinks to rest at night without a sigh; With waking eyes I watch the hours creep by.
My love her daily dinner takes in state; And so do I; The richest viands flank her plate; Coa.r.s.e grub have I.
Pure wines she sips at ease her thirst to slake; I pump my drink from Erie"s limpid lake.
My love has all the world at will to roam; Three acres I; She goes abroad, or quiet sits at home; So cannot I.
Bright angels watch around her couch at night; A Yank, with loaded gun, keeps me in sight.
A thousand weary miles stretch between My love and I; To her, this wintry night, cold, calm, serene, I waft a sigh, And hope, with all my earnestness of soul, To-morrow"s mail may bring me my parole.