and became my comrade, and I was a
drummer boy, -- I had seen the play,
"The Drummer Boy of the Rappahan-
nock," -- marching forward, with set
teeth, in the face of battle.

Whatever could redeem war and
make it glorious seemed to flood my
soul. All that was highest, all that was
noble in that dreadful conflict came to
me in my sleep -- to me, the child who
had been born when my father was at
"the front." I had a strange baptism
of the spirit. I discovered sorrow and
courage, singing trees and stars. I was
never again to think that the fireside
and fireside thoughts made up the whole
of life.

My father lies with other soldiers by
the Pacific; the forest sings no more;
the old army blankets have disap-
peared; the memories of the terrible
war are fading, -- happily fading, -- but
they all live again, sometimes, in my
memory, and I am once more a child,
with thoughts as proud and fierce and
beautiful as Valkyries.