In war he mounts the warrior’s steed,”
sings the “Last Minstrel” of the Scottish days of romance; and I do not think that our modern warriors are a whit behind them, either in love or war. My only wonder is, that they find time for love-making amid the storms of warfare. Just at this time, however, I suppose our valiant knights and ladies fair are taking advantage of the short respite, caused by alternate snows and sunshine of our variable climate having made the roads impassable to Grant’s artillery and baggage-wagons.
A soldier in our hospital called to me as I passed his bed the other day, “I say, Mrs. ——, when do you think my wound will be well enough for me to go to the country?”
“Before very long, I hope.”
“But what does the doctor say, for I am mighty anxious to go?”
I looked at his disabled limb and talked to him hopefully of his being able to enjoy country air in a short time.
“Well, try to get me up, for, you see, it ain’t the country air I’m after, but I wants to get married, and the 117 lady don’t know that I am wounded, and maybe she’ll think I don’t want to come.”
“Ah,” said I, “but you must show her your scars, and if she is a girl worth having she will love you all the better for having bled for your country, and you must tell her that—
“‘It is always the heart that is bravest in war
That is fondest and truest in love.’”