So, naturally, there was nothing he did not know about making himself comfortable in the open. He knew all the sorrow and all the joy of the home-less man, and now, as he cooked, he be-gan to sing the old songs -- "Marching Through Georgia," and "Bury Me Not on the Lone Prairie," and "In the Prison Cell I Sit." He had been in a Southern prison after the Battle of the Wilderness, and so he knew how to sing that song with particular feeling.
I had heard war stories all my life, though usually father told such tales in a half-joking way, as if to make light of everything he had gone through. But now, as we ate there under the tossing pines, and the wild chorus in the tree-tops swelled like a rising sea, the spirit of the old days came over him. He was a good "stump speaker," and he knew how to make a story come to life, and never did all his simple natural gifts show themselves better than on this night, when he dwelt on his old cam-paigns.
For the first time I was to look into the heart of a kindly natured man, forced by terrible necessity to go through the dread experience of war.
I gained an idea of the unspeakable homesickness of the man who leaves his family to an unimagined fate, and sacrifices years in the service of his country. I saw that the mere foregoing of roof and bed is an indescribable dis-tress; I learned something of what the palpitant anxiety before a battle must be, and the quaking fear at the first rattle of bullets, and the half-mad rush of determination with which men force valour into their faltering hearts; I was made to know something of the blight of war -- the horror of the battle-field, the waste of bounty, the ruin of homes.
Then, rising above this, came stories of devotion, of brotherhood, of service on the long, desolate marches, of cour-age 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 Lin-coln at Gettysburg, and learned to re-peat a part of them.
I was only eight, it is true, but emo-tion 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 fa-ther said -- and our heads rested on mounds of pine-needles.
Sometimes in the night I felt my fa-ther's hand resting lightly on my shoul-ders 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 Rappahan-nock," -- 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 disap-peared; 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.
