But he knew not what to do to fill up the time till he could conscientiously open the letter. He thought of going back and fulfilling his long-delayed purpose of thrashing Groundhog, but on reflection this scarcely commended itself as a fitting prelude.
He heard voices approaching—one sympathetic and encouraging, the other weak, pain-breathing, almost despairing. He looked out and saw the Chaplain helping back to the hospital a sick man who had over-estimated his strength and tried to reach his company. The man sat down on a rock, in utter exhaustion.
Shorty thrust the letter back into his blousepocket, sprang forward, picked the man up in his strong arms, and carried him bodily to the hospital. It taxed his strength to the utmost, but it sobered him and cleared his brain.
He returned to his covert, took out his letter, and again scanned its exterior carefully. He actually feared to open it, but at last drew his knife and carefully slit one side. He unfolded the inclosure as carefully as if it had been a rare flower, and with palpitating heart slowly spelled out the words, one after another:
"Bad Ax, Wisconsin,
"April the Twenty-First, 1863.
"Mister Daniel Elliott, Company Q, 200th Indiana Volunteer
Infantry.
"Respected Sir: I taik my pen in hand toe inform you that I
am wel, and hoap that you aire in joying the saim
blessing. For this, God be prazed and magnified forever."
"Goodness, how religious she is," said he, stopping to ruminate. "How much nicer it makes a woman to be pious. It don't hurt a man much to be a cuss—at least while he's young—but I want a woman to be awfully religious. It sets her off more'n anything else."
He continued his spelling exercise:
"I am verry glad that my sox reached you all rite, that they
fell into the hands of a braiv, pious Union soldier, and he
found them nice."