"He led his battery, six Dahlgren howitzers, through the swamp, and, in the face of a galling fire, continued to load and discharge one of his guns, after every man around him had been shot down; bravely remaining at his post until the enemy was dislodged and had made an unconditional surrender."
Oh! how pleased I was to see this testimony, and touch with my hand the sword that his true and brave hands would clasp.
I had just written the last word, when my little Alice's grandpapa came into the room, and handed her a package, saying, "Here, Monsieur Pop, your uncle John has sent you something by a soldier who came home wounded, and too ill to fight;" and he handed her a little parcel.
This uncle was my dear brother John. He had been in some dreadful battles, and we, like all left at home, suffered constant anxiety about him, dreading that each day might bring bad news.
He had been very ill with the terrible fever, which, I believe, has killed more than the guns of the enemy, and had taken "a cartload or so" of quinine, which is the very bitterest medicine that ever was invented. It ought always to cure, it is so very bad to take. It did cure my brother; and, so far, we were grateful to know, that though foremost in the fight, no bullet had yet touched him.
So Alice eagerly took the parcel, and undid it—my father and I looking on with our eyes very wide open. Inside the first paper were three smaller parcels. She unrolled the smallest first, and out came a little doll's china leg, with the foot broken off.
"Why, how funny!" she exclaimed.