TO THE FRONT
smoke of the cannons covered him from my sight—and I haven't seen him since. The poor old widow has his picture in the zouave uniform always by her.
It's a grown-up baby—long yellow curls, dimples, that smile the photographer puts on you, leaning on the back of a carved chair, with one leg across the other, his gun in the hollow of his arm, his red cap on the back of his head, as if he didn't care how soon they called on him to march to Richmond and put a stop to the war. This picture is all painted and it looks like a pretty toy soldier. I'm afraid to touch it when she shows it to me for fear I'll rumple him. Well, that morning at Chancellorsville he had a beard of yellow whiskers half a yard long, hiding the dimples, and all he had on wouldn't have made the ragman any richer. And, every now and then, she still asks me when I think he'll be home! You see, I was his keeper because I was older and wiser! But I suppose he was really wiser than I was. Come home! That's the trouble with others. Many!
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