hurry back to them."

"Haven't _you_ had any breakfast?"

"Well, I wa'n't rightly hungry when I left the house."

"Here, now," popped in the virtue before named, "is an opportunity to
discharge the debt we all owe to the brave fellows who gave us back our
country. Make it beer."

So it was made beer and bread and cold meat, and, after a little pressing,
the honest soul consented to the refreshment. He sat down in a cool
doorway and began to eat and to tell of the fight before Vicksburg. And if
you have never seen a one-armed soldier making a meal, I can assure you
the sight is a pathetic one, and is rendered none the cheerfuller by his
memories of the fights that mutilated him. This man had no very
susceptible audience, but before he was carried off the field, shot
through the body, and in the arm and foot, he had sold every package of
starch in his basket. I am ashamed to say this now, for I suspect that a
man with one arm, who indulged himself in going about under that broiling
sun of July, peddling starch, was very probably an impostor. He computed a
good day's profits of seventy-five cents, and when asked if that was not
very little for the support of a sick wife and three children, he answered
with a quaint effort at impressiveness, and with a trick, as I imagined,
from the manner of the regimental chaplain, "You've done your duty, my
friend, and more'n your duty. If every one did their duty like that, we
should get along." So he took leave, and shambled out into the furnace-
heat, the sun beating upon his pale face, and his linen coat hugging him
close, but with his basket lighter, and I hope his heart also. At any
rate, this was the sentiment which cheap philanthropy offered in self-