"Good-by, Ned."
"Good-by, John; good-by!"
They kissed each other tenderly as women, and so parted; for poor Ned could not stay to see his comrade die. For a little while there was no sound in the room but the drip of water from a pump or two, and John's distressful gasps, as he slowly breathed his life away. I thought him nearly gone, and had laid down the fan, believing its help no longer needed, when suddenly he rose up in his bed, and cried out, with a bitter cry, that broke the silence, sharply startling every one with its agonized appeal, "For God's sake, give, me air!"
It was the only cry pain or death had wrung from him, the only boon he had asked, and none of us could grant it, for all the airs that blow were useless now. Dan flung up the window; the first red streak of dawn was warming the gray east, a herald of the coming sun. John saw it, and, with the love of light which lingers in us to the end, seemed to read in it a sign of hope, of help, for over his whole face broke that mysterious expression, brighter than any smile, which often comes to eyes that look their last. He laid himself down gently, and stretching out his strong right arm, as if to grasp and bring the blessed air to his lips in fuller flow, lapsed into a merciful unconsciousness, which assured us that for him suffering was forever past.
As we stood looking at him, the ward-master handed me a letter, saying it had been forgotten the night before. It was John's letter, come just an hour too late to gladden the eyes that had looked and longed for it so eagerly—yet he had it; for after I had cut some brown locks for his mother, and taken off the ring to send her, telling how well the talisman had done its work, I kissed this good son for her sake, and laid the letter in his hand, still folded as when I drew my own away.
On my visit to the hospital at Gallatin, I was called to the bedside of a dying boy, who belonged in Columbus, Ohio. There I met Dr. W. P. Eltsun, Dr. Armington, Dr. Landis, and other surgeons, all working faithfully for the suffering men; but Death had marked this boy for his own. I took his almost pulseless hand in mine, wiped the cold sweat from his brow, and, as I did so, he murmured, in a soft tone—a tone of sweet sadness—and with a half vacant stare, "Mother, is that you? O, how long I've waited for your coming! Tell sister I'm better now. Good-by, Charlie. Halt! who goes there?" and then a sudden start seemed to bring him to a realization of his situation, and he quietly gazed at me for a moment, called me by name, and said, "Alf, will you write a letter for me to-morrow?" This I promised, should he be able to dictate to me what I should write. In a few minutes he again called the sweet name of "Mother! Mother!" and with the words "good-by" upon his lips, and a smile of joy beaming on his face, he fell into that sleep that knows no waking.
There were three ministering angels, who had left all the luxuries of a home, attending in this hospital. They had volunteered as nurses, and had come from Indianapolis, to render all the aid they could to our country's noble defenders. Indiana should remember the names of Miss Bates, Miss Cathcart, and Mrs. Ketchum.
The Ensign-Bearer.
Written Expressly for Mr. Alf. Burnett, by Miss Cora M. Eager.
Never mind me, Uncle Jared, never mind my bleeding breast;
They are charging in the valley, and you're needed with the rest;
All the day through, from its dawning till you saw your kinsman fall,
You have answered fresh and fearless to our brave commander's call,
And I would not rob my country of your gallant aid to-night,
Though your presence and your pity stay my spirit in its flight.
All along that quivering column, see the death-steeds trampling down
Men whose deeds this day are worthy of a kingdom and a crown.
Prithee, hasten, Uncle Jared—what's the bullet in my breast
To that murderous storm of fire, raining tortures on the rest?
See, the bayonets flash and falter—look I the foe begins to win!
See, see our faltering comrades! God! how the ranks are closing in!