Still, pleasant episodes often occurred to vary disappointments and lighten duties.
“Kin you writ me a letter?” drawled a whining voice from a bed in one of the wards, a cold day in ’62.
The speaker was an up-country Georgian, one of the kind called “Goubers” by the soldiers generally; lean, yellow, attennuated, with wispy strands of hair hanging over his high, thin cheek-bones. He put out a hand to detain me and the nails were like claws.
“Why do you not let the nurse cut your nails?”
“Because I aren’t got any spoon, and I use them instead.”
“Will you let me have your hair cut then? You can’t get well with all that dirty hair hanging about your eyes and ears.”
“No, I can’t git my hair cut, kase as how I promised my mammy that I would let it grow till the war be over. Oh, it’s onlucky to cut it!”
“Then I can’t write any letter for you. Do what I wish you to do, and then I will oblige you.”
This was plain talking. The hair was cut (I left the nails for another day), my portfolio brought, and sitting by the side of his bed I waited for further orders. They came with a formal introduction,—“for Mrs. Marthy Brown.”
A Circular Letter.