FullReads

“I’ll fix him,” said the soldier, and sat down to undo his knapsack, out of which he drew three enormous and very red apples. After giving one to each of the older children, he said:

“NowI guess he’ll come. Eh, my little man? Now come see you
r pap.”

Teddy crept slowly under the fence, assisted by the overzealous Tommy, and a moment later was kicking and squalling in his father’s arms. Then they entered the house, into the sitting room, poor, bare, art-forsaken little room, too, with its rag carpet, its square clock, and its two or three chromos and pictures from Harper’s Weeklypinned about.

“Emma, I’m all tired out,” said Private Smith as he flung himself down on the carpet as he used to do, while his wife brought a pillow to put under his head, and the children stood about, munching their apples.

“Tommy, you run and get me a pan of chips; and Mary, you get the tea-kettle on, and I’ll go and make some biscuit.”

And the soldier talked. Question after question he poured forth about the crops, the cattle, the renter, the neighbors. He slipped his heavy government brogan shoes off his poor, tired, blistered feet, and lay out with utter, sweet relaxation. He was a free man again, no longer a soldier under command. At supper he stopped once, listened, and smiled.”That’s old Spot. I know her voice. I s’pose that’s her calf out there in the pen. I can’t milk her tonight, though, I’m too tired; but I tell you, I’d like a drink o’ her milk. What’s become of old Rove?”

“He died last winter. Poisoned, I guess.” There was a moment of sadness for them all. It was some time before the husband spoke again, in a voice that trembled a little.

“Poor old feller! He’d a known me a half a mile away. I expected him to come down the hill to meet me. It ‘ud ‘a’ been more like comin’ home if I could ‘a’ seen him comin’ down the road an’ waggin’ his tail, an’ laughin’ that way he has. I tell yeh, it kin’ o’ took hold o’ me to see the blinds down an’ the house shut up.”

“But, yeh see, we—we expected you’d write again ‘fore you started. And then we thought we’d see you if you didcome,” she hastened to explain.

“Well, I ain’t worth a cent on writin’. Besides, it’s just as well yeh didn’t know when I was comm’. I tell yeh, it sounds good to hear them chickens out there, an’ turkeys, an’ the crickets. Do you know they don’t have just the same kind o’ crickets down South. Who’s Sam hired t’ help cut yer grain?”

“The Ramsey boys.”

“Looks like a good crop; but I’m afraid I won’t do much gettin’ it cut. This cussed fever an’ ague has got me down pretty low. I don’t know when I’ll get rid of it. I’ll bet I’ve took twenty-five pounds of quinine, if I’ve taken a bit. Gimme another biscuit. I tell yeh, they taste good, Emma. I ain’t had anything like it—Say, if you’d a heard me braggin’ to th’ boys about your butter ‘n’ biscuits, I’ll bet your ears ‘ud ‘a’ burnt.”

The private’s wife colored with pleasure.”Oh, you’re always a-braggin’ about your things. Everybody makes good butter.”

“Yes; old lady Snyder, for instance.”

“Oh, well, she ain’t to be mentioned. She’s Dutch.”

“Or old Mis’ Snively. One more cup o’ tea, Mary. That’s my girl! I’m feeling better already. I just b’lieve the matter with me is, I’m starved.”

This was a delicious hour, one long to be remembered. They were like lovers again. But their tenderness, like that of a typical American family, found utterance in tones, rather than in words. He was praising her when praising her biscuit, and she knew it. They grew soberer when he showed where he had been struck, one ball burning the back of his hand, one cutting away a lock of hair from his temple, and one passing through the calf of his leg. The wife shuddered to think how near she had come to being a soldier’s widow. Her waiting no longer seemed hard. This sweet, glorious hour effaced it all.