NIGHT D

Then, rising above this, came stories of devotion, of brotherhood, of service

on the long, desolate marches, of courage to the death of those who fought

for a cause. I began to see wherein lay the highest joy of the soldier, and of

how little account he held himself, if the principle for which he fought could

be preserved. I heard for the first time the wonderful words of Lincoln at

Gettysburg, and learned to repeat a part of them.

I was only eight, it is true, but emotion has no age, and I understood then as

well as I ever could, what heroism and devotion and self-forgetfulness mean.

I understood, too, the meaning of the words "our country," and my heart

warmed to it, as in the older times the hearts of boys and girls warmed to

the name of their king. The new knowledge was so beautiful that I thought

then, and I think now, that nothing could have served as so fit an

accompaniment to it as the shouting of those pines. They sang like heroes,

and in their swaying gave me fleeting glimpses of the stars, unbelievably

brilliant in the dusky purple sky, and half-obscured now and then by

drifting clouds.

By and by we lay down, not far apart, each rolled in an army blanket, frayed

with service. Our feet were to the fire—for it was so that soldiers lay, my

father said—and our heads rested on mounds of pine-needles.

Sometimes in the night I felt my father's hand resting lightly on my

shoulders to see that I was covered, but in my dreams he ceased to be my

father and became my comrade, and I was a drummer boy,—I had seen the

play, "The Drummer Boy of the Rappahannock,"—marching forward, with

set teeth, in the face of battle.

Whatever could redeem war and make it glorious seemed to flood my soul.

All that was highest, all that was noble in that dreadful conflict came to me

in my sleep—to me, the child who had been born when my father was at

"the front." I had a strange baptism of the spirit. I discovered sorrow and

courage, singing trees and stars. I was never again to think that the fireside

and fireside thoughts made up the whole of life.

My father lies with other soldiers by the Pacific; the forest sings no more; the

old army blankets have disappeared; the memories of the terrible war are

fading,—happily fading,—but they all live again, sometimes, in my memory,

and I am once more a child, with thoughts as proud and fierce and beautiful

as Valkyries.