“’Twas te fun’est dting! You pe lookin’ for te Noo ’Leants shteamer, undt me lookin’ for te Hambourg shteamer, undt coompt right so togeder undt never vouldn’t ’a’ knowedt udt yet, ovver te mayne exdt me, ‘Misses Reisen, vot iss your name?’ undt you headt udt. Undt te minudt you shpeak, udt choost come to me like a flash o’ lightenin’—‘Udt iss Misses Richlin’!’” The speaker’s companion gave her such attention as one may give in a crowd to words that have been heard two or three times already within the hour.
“Yes, Alice,” she said, once or twice to the little one, who pulled softly at her skirt asking confidential questions. But the baker’s widow went on with her story, enjoying it for its own sake.
“You know, Mr. Richlin’ he told me finfty dtimes, ‘Misses Reisen, doant kif up te pissness!’ Ovver I see te mutcheenery proke undt te foundtries all makin’ guns undt kennons, undt I choost says, ‘I kot plenteh moneh—I tdtink I kfit undt go home.’ Ovver I sayss to de Doctor, ‘Dte oneh dting—vot Mr. Richlin’ ko-in to tdo?’ Undt Dr. Tseweer he sayss, ‘How menneh pa’ls flour you kot shtowed away?’ Undt I sayss, ‘Tsoo hundut finfty.’ Undt he sayss, ‘Misses Reisen, Mr. Richlin’ done made you rich; you choost kif um dtat flour; udt be wort’ tweny-fife tollahs te pa’l, yet.’ Undt sayss I, ‘Doctor, you’ right, undt I dtank you for te goodt idea; I kif Mr. Richlin’ innahow one pa’l.’ Undt I done-d it. Ovver I sayss, ‘Doctor, dtat’s not like a rigler sellery, yet.’ Undt dten he sayss, ‘You know, mine pookkeeper he gone to te vor, undt I need’”—
A crash of brazen music burst upon the ear and drowned the voice. The throng of the sidewalk pushed hard upon its edge.
“Let me hold the little girl up,” ventured the milder man, and set her gently upon his shoulder, as amidst a confusion of outcries and flutter of hats and handkerchiefs the broad, dense column came on with measured tread, its stars and stripes waving in the breeze and its backward-slanting thicket of bayoneted arms glittering in the morning sun. All at once there arose from the great column, in harmony with the pealing music, the hoarse roar of the soldiers’ own voices singing in time to the rhythm of their tread. And a thrill runs through the people, and they answer with mad huzzas and frantic wavings and smiles, half of wild ardor and half of wild pain; and the keen-eyed man here by Mary lets the tears roll down his cheeks unhindered as he swings his hat and cries “Hurrah! hurrah!” while on tramps the mighty column, singing from its thousand thirsty throats the song of John Brown’s Body.
Yea, so, soldiers of the Union,—though that little mother there weeps but does not wave, as the sharp-eyed man notes well through his tears,—yet even so, yea, all the more, go—“go marching on,” saviors of the Union; your cause is just. Lo, now, since nigh twenty-five years have passed, we of the South can say it!
“And yet—and yet, we cannot forget”—
and we would not.