the sorrow and all the joy of the home-
less man, and now, as he cooked, he be-
gan to sing the old songs -- "Marching
Through Georgia," and "Bury Me Not
on the Lone Prairie," and "In the
Prison Cell I Sit." He had been in a
Southern prison after the Battle of the
Wilderness, and so he knew how to sing
that song with particular feeling.

I had heard war stories all my life,
though usually father told such tales in
a half-joking way, as if to make light of
everything he had gone through. But
now, as we ate there under the tossing
pines, and the wild chorus in the tree-
tops swelled like a rising sea, the spirit
of the old days came over him. He was
a good "stump speaker," and he knew
how to make a story come to life, and
never did all his simple natural gifts
show themselves better than on this
night, when he dwelt on his old cam-
paigns.

For the first time I was to look into
the heart of a kindly natured man,
forced by terrible necessity to go
through the dread experience of war.
I gained an idea of the unspeakable