"I hope these things will reach you by Christmas, and that you will enjoy them, and share them with those who have been good to you, and be very happy. We all think of the hardships you have to go through, and would willingly give up many of our comforts if you could only have them. We shall not have any turkey at Christmas—we shall all be so much happier to think you have one. For I would not have you so much as tempted to do what you say some of the soldiers have done—that is, steal the turkeys belonging to the secessionists. If there are rebels at heart, not yet in open opposition to the government, I would have you treat them kindly, and not provoke them to hate our cause worse than they do already. And always remember that, whatever the government may see fit to do to punish such men, you have no right to interfere with either their private opinions or their private property."
Why was it that the contents of Frank's Christmas box did not taste so good to him as he had anticipated? Simply because he could partake of neither pie nor turkey without the sorry sauce of a reproving conscience.
He thought to atone for his fault by magnanimity in sharing with others what he could not relish alone. He gave liberally to all his mates, and carried a large piece of the turkey, together with a generous supply of stuffing, and an entire mince pie, to his old friend Sinjin.
Now, Frank had not, for the past month, been on as good terms with the veteran as formerly. The meeting with Mrs. Manly in Boston seemed to have awakened unpleasant remembrances in the old drummer's mind, and to render him unpleasantly stiff and cold towards her son. He had received the thanksgiving wreath with a very formal and stately acknowledgment, and Frank, who knew not what warm torrents might be gushing beneath the stern old man's icy exterior, had kept himself somewhat resentfully aloof from him ever since. But he still felt a yearning for their former friendship, and he now hoped, with the aid of the good gifts of which he was the bearer, to make up with him.
"I wish you a merry Christmas," said Frank, arrived at the old man's tent.
"You are rather late for that, it seems to me," replied Sinjin, lifting his brows, as he sat in his tent and looked quietly over his shoulder at the visitor.
"I know it," said Frank. "But the truth is, I hadn't any thing to wish you a merry Christmas with yesterday. But this morning I got a box by express, full of goodies, direct from home."
"Ah!" said the old man, with a singular unsteadiness of eye, while he tried to look cold and unconcerned.
"Yes; isn't it grand? A turkey of my mother's own stuffing, and pies of her own baking, and every thing that's splendid. And she said she hoped you would accept a share, with her very kind regards. And so I've brought you some."
The old man had got up on his feet. But he did not offer to relieve Frank's hands. He made no reply to his little speech; and he seemed not so much to look at him, as through him, into some visionary past far away. Perhaps it was not the drummer boy he saw at all, but fairer features, still like his—a sweet young girl; the same he used to trot upon his knees, in those unforgotten years, so long ago, when he was in his manhood's prime, and life was still fresh to him, and he had not lost his early faith in friendship and love.