OUR DAILY WORK.
August, 1862.
You ask me, dear C., the usual question, when our work at the hospital is mentioned, “What can the ladies find to do all day?” I might give you the stereotyped answer, “We receive and register the donations, give out and oversee the clothing, make either delicacies or drinks for the men who are ill, read to them, write for them, and try to make ourselves generally useful.” This is the ordinary answer, but I think it would be more agreeable to you to come and see for yourself; one day is a pretty good specimen of every day, at least at present, so don your bonnet and jump into the cars with me. What do you say? That the sun is too scorching and the air too heavy for exertion? You think so here, but come with me, and you will soon forget weather and self in more important affairs; at least, so I find it. You agree? Well, then, here we are; why don’t you acknowledge the guard’s salute as we enter? Shall we pause for a moment in the wards, before we begin our work? I think we had better do so, for in these days, when we once enter our room, there is no escape, while the light lasts. There are several cases here which I should like to point out to you as we pass along, though we cannot give much time to them to-day. Do you see the man bending over that geranium plant in the window? I think I have never seen a more real, true, deep love of flowers in any one than in him. You see how lovingly he leans over that bush, as though each leaf were a special pet and darling. I have often, this summer, brought him a few roses—as much, I believe, for my own pleasure as his—that I might watch his delight. He would sit often for nearly an hour looking at them, holding them in his hands and lingering over them, it seemed, with a feeling too deep for words.
I never could tell whether it was pure love of the flowers themselves, or whether they brought home, with all its memories, before him; and as he is very reserved, I content myself with giving the enjoyment without being too critical as to its cause.
But while I am talking, I see that your eyes are wandering to that bed, where one of our sickest men is lying. He is an Irishman, and far gone in consumption, poor fellow! He has interested me much by his air of silent, weary suffering, and from his loneliness; he seems to have no friends anywhere, and is very grateful for the least service rendered him. And yet he has a good deal of drollery about him, and when his pain will let him, often amuses the men with his dry remarks. The other day, as I passed him, his hard, hollow cough was followed by such a deep, heavy sigh, that I stopped at once, saying, “What can I do for you, Jones? Is there nothing that you want?”
“Nothing, ma’am, nothing; sure, and what I want, is what you can’t give.”
“Tell me what it is; perhaps I may be able to help you.”
“Sure, and it’s lonely I am, so very lonely; and it’s some one to love that I’m wanting.”