THE COST—WHO PAYS
oh, daddy, dear, you'll like me better than ever! Oh, you'll see what tears make grow!"
It was all hard for me to put together, but I understand, dimly, that this boy, born for joy, was looking out upon sorrow—something he had never known and wasn't fitted for.
"Davy," I says, "stop the riddles and tell me what you are going to do. The times are out of joint. Don't make things worse."
"I know and you'll know—all in good time, daddy," says Dave, very thoughtful. "The poor rebels—poor Johnny rebs—sure to get licked—and nothing to eat—nothing to wear—and plenty of fighting—there's not much fun in that—you must—forgive—a—poor Johnny reb!"
"Not on your life!" says I, hard as iron. "I'll not forgive any rebel. This old roof won't harbor none. Every timber in it was cut on free soil with free white hands. Every nail in it means Union. And all of 'em together means 'E Pluribus Unum!' Any rebel's got to get from under mighty quick."
299
