AN OLD SOLDIER'S STORY.
The low school-house stood in a green Wabash wood
Lookin' out on long levels of corn like a sea—
A little log-house, hard benches, and we,
Big barefooted boys and rough 'uns, we stood
In line with the gals and tried to get 'head
At spellin' each day when the lessons was said.
But one, Bally Dean, tall, bony, and green
As green corn in the milk, stood fast at the foot—
Stood day after day, as if he'd been put
A soldier on guard there did poor Bally Dean.
And stupid! God made him so stupid I doubt—
But I guess God who made us knows what He's about.
He'd a long way to walk. But he wouldn't once talk
Of that, nor the chores for his mother who lay
A shakin' at home. Still, day after day
He stood at the foot till the class 'gan to mock!
Then to master he plead, "Oh I'd like to go head!"
Now it wasn't so much, but the way it was said.
Then the war struck the land! Why the barefooted band
It just nailed up that door: and the very next day,
With master for Cap'en, went marchin' away;
And Bally the butt of the whole Wabash band.
But he bore with it all, yet once firmly said,
"When I get back home, I'm agoin' up head!"
Oh, that school-house that stood in the wild Wabash wood!
The rank weeds were growin' like ghosts through the floor.
The squirrels hulled nuts on the sill of the door.
And the gals stood in groups scrapin' lint where they stood.
And we boys! How we sighed; how we sickened and died
For the days that had been, for a place at their side.
Then one fever-crazed and his better sense dazed
And dulled with heart-sickness all duty forgot;
Deserted, was taken, condemned to be shot!
And Bally Dean guardin' his comrade half crazed,
Slow paced up and down while he slept where he lay
In the tent waitin' death at the first flush of day.
And Bally Dean thought of the boy to be shot,
Of the fair girl he loved in the woods far away;
Of the true love that grew like a red rose of May;
And he stopped where he stood, and he thought and he thought
Then a sudden star fell, shootin' on overhead.
And he knew that his mother beckon'd onto the dead.
And he said what have I? Though I live though I die.
Who shall care for me now? Then the dull, muffled drum
Struck his ear, and he knew that the master had come
With the squad. And he passed in the tent with a sigh,
And the doomed lad crept forth, and the drowsy squad led
With low trailin' guns to the march of the dead.
Then with face turned away tow'rd a dim streak of day,
And his voice full of tears the poor bowed master said,
As he fell on his knees and uncovered his head:
"Come boys it is school time, let us all pray."
And we prayed. And the lad by the coffin alone
Was tearless, was silent, was still as a stone.