Whether he has confided to him our flattering name for him or not, I have not yet been able to discover, but think it not at all unlikely. As we pass along to his bed, just notice the tables of the men, and see how carefully they have the “Lares and Penates” treasured up on them. Pictures of wife, mother, and sister, little remembrances carefully preserved; the Bible,—often the parting gift—and once or twice a little toy, which seemed to keep home fresh in the father’s heart; but one thing has often struck me with surprise; these all, as you may see, lie open on the table, but you will never see the bride elect—the promised one—so exposed; her memory and her face are as carefully guarded as though she were in danger of being captured and carried off by storm. I have seen quite as much reserve and delicacy of feeling upon this point, as I have ever met with in higher circles. The story comes at last; but it is often after months of watching and nursing, when you fancy every detail of home has been given over and over again,—it comes in bashful words and with heightened color, “I thought I’d like you to know;” or, “You won’t mention, will you? But”—and then comes confession. Or again, a sudden burst of gratitude seems to find vent in showing you that precious one, so carefully hidden all this long time; and a photograph is mutely placed in your hands, and of course no woman ever yet said to any picture so given, “Who is this?” Ah! well. I fear you are tired, long ere this, of my earnest desire to prove that the human heart is the same all the world over, prince or peasant, baron or beggar, senator or serf; so let us walk on, and speak to our cross friend.
There he sits, on that bed opposite to us, in the red shirt, with his arm in the sling; that’s a bad wound, and I often excuse his irritability, because he is suffering so much with it, and I know that the doctor thinks amputation may be necessary. He is a good-looking man, if he would only smile and look good-natured, instead of frowning and scolding all the time. There comes his dinner; now listen, but don’t go up to him, just yet; if he sees the ladies, he won’t express his views so plainly.
Grumbler, loquitur. “Call that my dinner? Pitch it out, I say, pitch it out, or I’ll pitch you out! Didn’t I tell you the next time you brought me that greasy stuff you call soup, I’d report you? say, didn’t I?”
Down-trodden orderly, rising at last. “Pitch it out yourself! The other boys can eat it; I don’t see why you’re so mighty nice.”
“Mighty nice, indeed! I tell you it’s grub not fit for an almshouse, that’s what it is.”
Let us go up and speak to him; perhaps the sight of the ladies may allay his wrath.
“What’s the matter, George? what are you speaking so violently about?”
“I beg your pardon, ma’am; I didn’t know you were there.”
“But the whole hospital might have heard you; and I just want to know, for curiosity, whether you really referred to that chicken soup, when you said it was “grub fit for an almhouse?” because, if you did, I want to tell you that I have just finished feeding a very sick man with it, and that, as I tasted it before giving it to him, I thought how nicely it was made; and that, tired as I was, I should not object to have a little ordered for me.”
“It’s that coat of grease on the top, ma’am, that I can’t stand; it makes me sick, and I’ve told him over and over not to come near me with it, big fool that he is.”