Hallam had found in camp a copy of a Southern newspaper; and,
thinking it might amuse the company to read it, produced it.
Ailsa, looking over his shoulder, noticed a poem called
"Christmas," printed on the first page.
"Read it aloud," he said, laughing. "Let's hear what sort of
Christmas poetry the Johnnies produce."
So, after smilingly scanning the first lines, she began, aloud; but her face had grown very grave, and her low voice thrilled them as she became conscious of the deeper sadness of the verse.
"How grace this Hallowed Day?
Shall happy bells from yonder ancient spire
Send their glad greetings to each Christmas fire
Round which our children play?
"How shall we grace the Day?
With feast and song and dance and homely sport,
And shout of happy children in the court,
And tales of ghost and fay?
"Is there indeed a door
Where the old pastimes with their joyful noise
And all the merry round of Christmas joys
Can enter as of yore?
"Would not some pallid face
Look in upon the banquet, calling up
Dread shapes of battle in the Christmas cup,
And trouble all the place?
"How can we hear the mirth
While some loved reveller of a year ago
Keeps his mute Christmas now beneath the snow,
In cold Virginia earth—"
Her voice suddenly broke; she laughed, slightly hysterical, the tears glittering in her eyes.
"I—c-can't—read it, somehow. . . . Forgive me, everybody, I think I'm—tired——"