and sit in the old orchard, and perhaps lay his
bones, what is left of them, in the burying-ground on the hill. He pulls
out his well-worn papers as he talks; there is the honorable discharge,
the permit of the Home, and the pension. Yes, Uncle Sam is generous; it
is the most generous government God ever made, and he would willingly
fight for it again. Thirty dollars a month, that is what he has; he is
not a beggar; he wants for nothing. But the pension is not payable till
the end of the month. It is entirely his own obligation, his own fault;
he can fight, but he cannot lie, and nobody is to blame but himself; but
last night he fell in with some old comrades at Southdown, and, well, you
know how it is. He had plenty of money when he left the Home, and he is
not asking for anything now, but if he had a few dollars for his railroad
fare to the next city, he could walk the rest of the way. Wounded? Well,
if I stood out here against the light you could just see through me,
that's all. Bullets? It's no use to try to get 'em out. But, sir, I'm not
complaining. It had to be done; the country had to be saved; and I'd do
it again if it were necessary. Had any hot fights? Sir, I was at
Gettysburg! The veteran straightens up, and his eyes flash as if he saw
again that sanguinary field. Off goes the citizen's hat. Children, come
out here; here is one of the soldiers of Gettysburg! Yes, sir; and this
knee--you see I can't bend it much--got stiffened at Chickamauga; and
this scratch here in the neck was from a bullet at Gaines Mill; and this
here, sir--thumping his chest--you notice I don't dare to cough much
--after the explosion of a shell at Petersburg I found myself lying on
my-back, and the only one of my squad who was not killed outright. Was it
the imagination of the citizen or of the soldier that gave the impression
that the hero had been in the forefront of every important action of the
war? Well, it doesn't matter much. The citizen was sitting there under
his own vine, the comfortable citizen of a free republic, because of the
wounds in this cheerful and imaginative old wanderer. There, that is
enough, sir, quite enough. I am no beggar. I thought perhaps you had
heard of the Ninth Vermont. Woods is my name--Sergeant Woods. I trust
some time, sir, I shall be in a position to return the compliment.
Good-evening, sir; God bless your honor! and accept the blessing of an
old soldier. And the dear old hero goes down the darkening a
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