The work goes briskly on; some of the men have got tired and left us, but most of them are faithful still, especially my friend there,—that tall Yankee, with his crutches laid at his side. He is a New Hampshire man; and, with true Yankee perseverance, has never moved since he concluded to try his hand at “greening letters,” as he calls it. He “calculated he could do that as well as anything else, though he had never tried before,” and wonderfully has he succeeded. Many a merry laugh rings out, as the different ones hold up the results of their work to know if we have an idea “what that letter is intended for?” and truly we often find some difficulty in recognizing them, but trust their position in the sentence may be more suggestive than when they stand alone. It is tough work, and I am almost inclined to agree with one of the men, who, as he puts the last stitch to his work, starts up, exclaiming:
“Well, any man that can do that work, is fit to go back to his regiment; I’ve done nothing like it since I left the Peninsula.”
As we are hurrying on, to meet the constant demands from the dining-room, “Can’t you give us an E?” “Isn’t that A done?”—a quiet little man at my side turns to me, and says, in an under tone:
“No one thinks of the poor fellow who died here this morning,” pointing to the bed directly back of the spot where our merry group is gathered.
“Died here! To-day? Who? When?”
“Just about a couple of hours ago. A man you never saw; only brought in a few days since.”
Could it be possible that here, where we had all been so full of mirth and gayety, but a few hours since, on this very spot, on this Christmas Eve, too, a soul had passed from earth—from its vigil here—to keep the Festival—where? None knew, and none can ever know, till the Awful Day, when “the secrets of all hearts shall be revealed.”
There was a special sadness about this death. I found, upon inquiry, that the case had not been considered a serious one; that the man had even spoken of being at home on New Year’s Day; that the ladies had brought him a drink that morning, which they had prepared for him; and scarcely half an hour later, the wardmaster, in passing, had been struck by his appearance, went up to him, and found him quite dead. Apparently he had died calmly and without struggle; this seemed more probable from the fact that those in the nearest beds, even, had no idea of it; but there was a loneliness about that passing which I could not forget.
Had he felt the dark cloud coming ere he entered into its shadow? Had he longed to speak—to call—and had no power? Had he yearned to send one last message—one parting word of love—to those far-away dear ones? We may not know; and if a tear moistened those bright greens, as they lay almost upon the spot where he so late had been, was it not a type of earth, and of the constant mingling of earthly joy and sorrow, from which we may never escape long as we linger here?
“Sorrow and gladness together go wending;