_March 21, 1864._




A Letter

TO THE AGED AND HONORABLE JOSIAH TRAYLOR FROM HIS GRANDSON, A SOLDIER IN
FRANCE, WHEREIN THE MOTIVE AND INSPIRATION OF THIS NARRATIVE ARE BRIEFLY
PRESENTED.


_In France, September 10, 1915._

Dear Grandfather:

At last I have got mine. I had been scampering towards the stars, like a
jack-rabbit chased by barking greyhounds, when a shrapnel shell caught up
with me. It sneezed all over my poor bus, and threw some junk into me as
if it thought me nothing better than a kind of waste basket. Seems as if
it had got tired of carrying its load and wanted to put it on me. It
succeeded famously but I got home with the bus. Since then they have been
taking sinkers and fish hooks out me fit only for deep water. Don't
worry, I'm getting better fast. I shall play no more football and you
will not see me pitching curves and running bases again. No, I shall sit
in the grandstand myself hereafter and there will not be so much of me
but I shall have quite a shuck on my soul for all that. I've done a lot
of thinking since I have been lying on my back with nothing else to do.
When your body gets kind of turned over in the ditch it's wonderful how
your mind begins to hustle around the place. Until this thing happened my