"That's what's the matter with Harry, here," said Andy. "He's got the spring-fever, I tell him; but he thinks he has the war-fever. I told him we'd come up here and see what you had to say about it."
"About what? About the spring-fever, or about the war?"
"Why, about the war, of course, Joe," said Andy with a smile.
"Well, boys, I know what the war-fever is like. I had a touch of it last winter when the Fifty-first boys went off, and I came very near going along with them, too. But my brothers, Charlie and Sam, both wanted to go, and I declared that if they went I'd go too; and mother took it so much to heart that we all had to give it up. Charlie and Sam came near joining a cavalry company some months ago, and I shouldn't wonder much if they did get off one of these days; but as for myself, I guess I'll have to stay at home and take care of the old folks."
"And I tell Harry, here," said Andy, "that he had better stick to books and help me with my Cæsar."
"Or he might get a hoe and come and help me with my corn," said Joe, with a smile; "that would take both the spring-fever and the war-fever out of him in a jiffy. But there is your bell calling you to your books. Poor fellows, how I pity you!"
That my companion would persevere in his purpose of "sticking to books," as he called it, I had no doubt. For besides being naturally possessed of a resolute will, he was several years my senior, and therefore presumably less liable to be carried away by the prevailing restlessness of the times. But for myself study continued to grow more and more irksome as the summer drew on apace, so that when, before the close of the term, a former schoolmate began to "raise a company," as it was called, for the nine months' service, unable any longer to endure my restless longing for a change, I sat down at my desk one day in the school-room and wrote the following letter home:—
Dear Papa: I write to ask whether I may have your permission to enlist. I find the school is fast breaking up; most of the boys are gone. I can't study any more. Won't you let me go?
Poor father! In the anguish of his heart it must have been that he sat down and wrote: "You may go!" Without the loss of a moment I was off to the recruiting-office, showed my father's letter, and asked to be sworn in. But alas! I was only sixteen, and lacked two years of being old enough, and they would not take me unless I could swear I was eighteen, which, of course, I could not and would not do.
So, then, back again to the school when the fall term opened early in August, 1862, there to dream over Horace, and Homer, and that one poor little old siege of Troy, for a few days more, while Andy at my side toiled manfully at his Cæsar. The term had scarcely well opened, when, unfortunately for my peace of mind, a gentleman who had been my school-teacher some years previously, began to raise a company for the war, and the village at once went into another whirl of excitement, which carried me utterly away; for they said I could enlist as a drummer-boy, no matter how young I might be, provided I had my father's consent. But this, most unfortunately, had been meanwhile revoked. For, to say nothing of certain remonstrances on the part of my father during the vacation, there had recently come a letter saying,—