"Well, you shall have one"; and wetting his own gave it to him.
"I can't understand you Yankees," said the Colonel. "You fight us like devils, and then you treat us like angels. I am sorry I entered this war."[53]
Said another Rebel,—an Irishman,—to a chaplain who took care of him, "May every hair of your head be a wax-taper to light you on your way to glory!"[54]
A chaplain passing through the hospital, came to a cot where lay a young wounded soldier who had fought for the Union.
"Poor fellow!" said the chaplain.
"Don't call me 'poor fellow!'" was the indignant reply.
"Dear fellow, then. Have you written to your mother since the battle?"
"No, sir!"
"You ought to. Here it is the tenth,—a whole week since the battle. She will be anxious to hear from you."
The lad with his left hand threw aside the sheet which covered him, and the chaplain saw that his right arm was off near the shoulder.