Butler citizen. [volume] (Butler, Pa.) 1877-1922, 1889-07-19
LITTLE CANTEEN.

In IDe winter OI loOl, lay slch Ill All
army hospital, and was worn nearly to
skin and bone by one of those dread dis
eases of the camp that has slain more sol
diers than either bullets or steel.
In this state of being, l felt like bur
den, and scarcely gave more than feeble
smile of gratitude when informed by the
surgeon in charge that it had been decided
to send me home as chance of recovery.
But after got on board the ears at Rich
mond, and the train rolled out from the
depot, began to look about me, and as
did so my spirits rallied somewhat, and |
rejoiced in the feeling that home with all
of its endearing associations would soon be
reached, and there | would get that rest
and loving attention which one finds no.
where else, so perfectly, and that if my
disease could not be conquered, | would at
least have the consolation of dying amongst
my loved ones.
The train was long one. and crowded
to its utmost capacity. Soldiers off on a
spree, impudent and uproarious; sick and
wounded soldiers, pale, feverish and pain
racked; here a smart cOmmissary, there a
vermin infested rough from the front; yon-
der an anxious, sad eyed woman taking her
boy home to die, further on young beauty
afraid of the soldiers and their rough joks,
and yet half courting their notice--all
sorts and conditions mixed together, but
all, from the old gray heads to the young
est prattlers, agreed in one thing, viz: un-
dying devotion to the Southern Confeder-
acy.
We were soon past Petersburg, and a
little later was rushing through North Car
olina, leaFing some passengers and taking
up others as We sped from station to sta
ton; but the same general description OF
my fellow travellers that have just given
would hold good from beginning to end of
the journey.
We were past Weldon-how far can't
say-and it was late in the night when |
was awakened from an uncomfortable nap
by the jerking of the train as it started off
after one of its numerous stoppages. |
looked out to see where we were. 1t was
a wood and water station, and standing on
one end of the wood rack there was little
boy. He was peering forward into the car
windows as the train slowly moved by. |
would have thought no more of the circum-
stance, but almost next moment the rear
door of the car was opened, and the same
boy that had seen on the wood rack came
tiniidly forward.
"'Why, sonny" / said, "where did you
come fromY"
"out yonder," pointing into the dark
ness.
II know that much already, for if Pm
not mistaken you are the same boy | saw
out on the wood rack just now, amt your"
He nodded assent.
''Well, where did you come from before
that? Don't be afraid; come here and tell
me about it,"
The boy looked at me, and seemed to be
reassured by my manner and expression,
for he came forward without any further
hesitation to the place at my side, which
had beckoned him to take.
Everybody else in the car appeared to
be asleep. So no one besides myself had
observed his entrance He was hand
some little fellow, but his clothes were
torn and dirty, and he limped like one
who had been on a long tramp.
repeated my question, and he replied
that he had come from Charleston.
From Charlestonw / exclaimed in as
tonishment. "Why, how in the world did
you get this far from Charleston by your
self"
Il walked"
'Now, look here, my little man." said
rebukingly, "do you know where the story
tellers goi"
~ declare" said he, his blue eyes swim
ming in tears, "Tm telling you the truth
am not telling you a story"
"Well, well, don't cry, bub-I'll take
your word for it; and where were you go
iDgf"
"To Virginia, to find my papa"
I puckered up my mouth for long
whistle; but as that would be expressive of
disbelief, and as | did want to risk hurting
the little fellow again, restrained myself,
and proceeded to draw his story from him.
IF you are going to Virginia" said I in
u kind tone, you are on the wrong train
this is taking us back to Charleston.
II know that, sir; but ] don't want to go
to Virginia now-I want to go back home"
"Ah, has your heart failed you, my lit
tie mani"
''No SIR" faint that; but | met man
today who said he knew my papa, and he
told me that he gone home on a furlough."
was amused by the child's simple faith
IN the assurance of stranger, but as ]
thought home would be the best place for
him, | said nothing to stagger that faith,
but contented myself with questioning him
as to his history.
His name was Harry Sinton, and he had
reached the mature age of 10, his mother
had been dead two years, his father had
enlisted ut the outbreak of the war, and
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