The Soldiers' journal. (Rendezvous of Distribution, Va.) 1864-1865, 1864-02-17
Where Your Gifts Go.

slim oaks sprinkle IL, ana Denealn telu, III
streets with strange, far eastern look, stand the
tents of one of those blessed cities of mercy-a
field hospital. The sun pours holly down; a
distant drum snarls now and then as II In a
dream; the tinkling concert of cloud of locusts
the cicada of the South-comes, like the dear
old sleigh bells chime, from distant tree
"The loud laugh that tells the vacant mind" is
unheard the familiar sound of closing doors
and children's carol never rises there; the tents
swell white, and sad, and still. Within them lie
almost three thousand soldiers, marred with all
wounds conceivable, wasted with pain, parched
with fever, wearily turning, wearily waiting to
take up the blessed march. Ho, for the North
That is the word, the ever-abiding charmer that
fingers still behind" 1t is Stevenson it is
Nashville it is Louisville; it is home; it is hea-
ven. Alas for it, how they falter and sleep by
the way! And every one of these men was
somebody's boy once; had a mother once, a wife,
a sister, a sweetheart but &C better is a friend
that is near than a brother affair off, and now
comes the blessed mission of woman. True,
there are only two here in person, but how many
in heart and work
You have been thinking, my sisters, where is
our work in all these scenes? That snowy roll
of linen that little pillow beneath the sufferers
head that soft fold across the gashed breast;
that cooling drink the rude kind, stalwart nurse
is putting to- yonder boys white lips; that
deicacy this poor fellow is just partaking that
dressing gown whose broidered hem those long,
thin fingers are toying with the slippers world
too wide for the thin fatering feet the dish of
fruit left hand is slowly working at, his right
laid upon our Federal alter at Chickamauga, new
erto be lifted more. Your tree my sister, bore that
| fruit your fingers wrought, your heart conceiv-
ed, "What do the women say about us boys at
home ?" slowly asked a poor wreck OF lad as
sat by his side. That brow of his ached, know,
for the touch of loving hand, sand the sound
| of a voice that is STILL" At the moment he ask
ed the question he was turning over little silk
en- needle book that one of you laughing girls
made some day and tucked in a corner of a bag,
labeled sUnited States Sanitary Commission"
On the cover of that book you had wrought the
words-playfully, perhaps" My bold soldier
boy" silently pointed to the legend; the re-
ply struck home to his heart; and he burst into
tears. assure you they were not bitter tears he
shed. and as he wiped them away with fine
| film of a handkerchief you girls had hemmed
for him. his question was twice answered, and
he was content. His eyelids closed down, his
breathing was regular he had fallen asleep, and
I thought it was the picture of the " Soldier s
Dream E" over again.
You hear of the mal-appropriaton of your
gifts, but meyer fear one grain may fail, but two
will spring up and blossom out into "forget- me-
nots' Your work is everywhere. Go with me
to that tent standing apart; it is the dead-house
tent. Four boys in their brown blankets, four
white wooden collins, four labels with four
names on four still breasts. Two of the four
garments the sleepers wear are of linen from
vour stores, stitched by your fingers. Verify,
| tho ladies, Soldiers Aid Societies should be