The Kenosha telegraph. [volume] (Kenosha, Wis.) 1860-1888, 1864-07-21


legs bristling at each other in the most bel
ligerent manner. "a I'll E..a-7.
Mercy to me, Loizy, eff you amt a
cleanin' housed" and aunty raised both
hands in CONSERVATION.
Certainly; and why not, aunty ?"
''Why not, indeed Pretty time for you
to be askin' that question; but better late'n
no time"
My want of domesticity had been great
trial to my afectionate kin, and to none a
greater than to Aunt Hepzie.
80 You knew't Philip Farley had gone off
this morning?"
Aunty excavated a seat for herslf among
the books in the great chair.
81 knew he was intending to go soon,"
replied, unconcernedly, as | mounted table
and began taking down curtains.
eyes he's gone. He come over to bid me
good by, an do declare't RELY pitied the
fellow he acted so sorter down in the
mouth. Something gone wrong, now | tell
you.
He stood there on my doorstun, an seq
to him.
L hope you'll be here again next summer
Mr.. Philips and he said: -
4 don't know when | shall ever come
again, Aunt Hepzie.'
Then laughed, an told him most likely
he wouldn't never want to come and see us.
You'll forget all abont us when you get
along with your grand city folks, SEE | an
to my dyin day [ shall remember how he
looked when he said:
'We don't forget so easily my good friend;
but wish to heaven | could forget the last
three months, although they have been the
happiest of my life
An then he never said another word, only
he shook hands with me and went out o the
yard and if you can bleve it, l just sat
down an cried. did hate to hev him go
he has ben so clipper round 'nong our folks
this summer. Lawful heart Loizy! what
hev you done? Smashed your fingers all
to nothin' Can't we handle hammer bet
ter n that, child?
''Never mind. it's nothing,"I said. l
had crushed my finger and the blood was
streaming. The pain was a relief. sat
down IN me3jas res to bind up the
wound.
'Thats right, dear; do it straight up in
the blood Better n any salve that is to
cure a hurt, " said Aunt Hepzie.
''Thank you aunty, I'll try your recipe"
1t was more than a finger wound that
bound up in my own fresh blood that NOR
ming. . ...-...
Where's your mother?'
Gin the garden, think"
''Well, I've brought her over bundle OF
vaIerian, She was telin' on me that she was
troubled to sleep nights. Hain't you mind
ed Loizy, how pale your mothers ben a
gettin' lately ?" ''e
''No | hadn't noticed" a.
And cursed my blindness when Lsaw up
on her face that night, the same look which,
years before my father had worn.
That winter she died 1t was New Years
morning when, all along the country side,
women stood upon their oor-steps, silent,
listening, counting, while the bell tolled the
years Of my mothers life. During the storm
and the darkness Of that winter night her
spiri t had gone out and up and the heavens
had received her out of my sight | was
alone. A few weeks, and my solitary AIM
less life became intolerable. Small as | am
am strong of body and iron of nerve. You
know there are places where such women are
needed to-day, and in month was hos
pital nurse.
Not one of your city hospitals was it; but
a large building, with windows looking ev-
cry way; with plenty of Gods blue heaven
above, and plenty of his fresh air waited
through it--a place to rest, to grow strong,
and, if God so wiIled, place to die in.
A September day was nearing its close. =
Golden lights and violet shadows fecked
the Virginia hills How calm and still it
was over there towards the sunset, aad yet,
just beyond those hills yesterday a fierce
battle had ragged. All day long those weary
hospital trains had brought us loads Of
wounded and dying; but now, with the twi-
light, came peaceful hush through all the
wards stood still a moment by the open
window. Those moments of rest were rare
since Philip went away. Did he remember
wondered. couldn't help this wonder,
sometimes, though had tried to put it all
by,
This way a moment, Miss Sinclair, il
you are not busy" 1t was DR.. Mills, who
spoke II want steady hand, he contin-
ued as | followed him down the ROOM "a
bad case, very bad case. A young Captain,
wounded yesterday, busy all day giving or
ders about his Men, and now there must be
an amputation." And we went on.
"What is it, Freddie ~ A little brown
haired drunmer-boy put out his hand as
passed his cot.
''Are you too tired to write to my mother
tonight, please?"
No, my boy, I'll come back in half an
T. - all +11 I stood hv tho
new patient. The assistant surgeon was
there.
'Chloroform ?" he asked.
'.No," said Dr. Mills; and then to me.
''are you strong enough to hold his arm
the other is to be taken off"
l took my place bracing against the wall.
It was slender hand, with fingers straight
and round. glanced towards the face; a
handkerchief was thrown over it, the inn
pulse Of brave man, in his agony, to con-
ceal the writings of pain.
Take charge Of this for a few days, will
you?" and | started slightly, as DR.. Mills
handed me a pocket photograph case, 1t
was like the one Philip used to carry, and as
I took. it, one red leaf hutteFed TOD the
floor.
care we all ready?" asked DR.. Mills and
that instant little red CLEAN from the open
sleeve of the wounded man sent a sudden
sickness all over me.
''Wait moment, please" begged.
My own coral bracelet! There was no
mistaking it, for the trinket was Of curious
carving, and quaint design; IA heathenish-
looking thing, mother always said-brought
from abroad by a sea-faring relative | had
lost it more than a year before, in one of
my boat rides with Philip Farley. | sup
posed it was at the bottom Of the river; l
had never thought to 6ud it here; | knew
then whose hand was holding through the
fearful struggle; knew more; that through
those weary months, while had been try
ing to forget, he, during all the turmoil and
tulnult of soldiers life, had never for
gotten.
Half an hour afterward, went back to
my little drummer boy.
''Why, Miss Sinclair, "he said, show hand
L. Il