The Red Acorn [48]
tune. It was a favorite hymn at the Methodist church in Sardis, and the last time he had heard it was when he had accompanied Rachel to the church to attend services conducted by a noted evangelist.
Ah, Rachel!--what of her?
He had not thought of her since a swift recollection of her words at the parting scene on the piazza had come to spur up his faltering resolution, as the regiment advanced up the side of Wildcat. Now one bitter thought of how useless all that he had gone through with the day before was to rehabilitate himself in her good opinion was speedily chased from his mind by the still bitterer one of the contempt she must feel for him, did she but know of his present abject prostration.
After all, might not the occurrences of yesterday be but the memories of a nightmare? They seemed too unreal for probability. Perhaps he was just recovering consciousness after the delirium of a fever.
The walnut sticks in the fireplace popped as sharply as pistols, and he trembled from head to foot.
"Heavens, I'm a bigger coward than ever," he said bitterly, and turning himself painfully in bed, he fixed his eyes upon the wall. "I was led to believe," he continued, "that after I had once been under fire, I would cease to dread it. Now, it seems to me more dreadful than I ever imagined it to be."
Aunt Debby's wheel hummed and droned still louder, but her pleasant tones rode on the cadences like an Aeolian harp in a rising wind:
"Man may trouble and distress me, 'T will but drive me to Thy breast; Life with trials hard may press me; Heaven will bring me sweeter rest. O, 'tis not in grief to harm me, While Thy love is left to me. O, 'twere not in joy to charm me, Were that joy unmixed with Thee."
He wondered weakly why ther were no monasteries in this land and age, to serve as harbors or refuge for those who shrank from the fearfulness of war.
He turned over again wearily, and Aunt Debby, looking toward him, encountered his wide-open eyes.
"Yer awake, air ye?" she said kindly. "Hope I didn't disturb you. I wuz tryin' ter make ez little noise ez possible."
"No, you didn't rouse me. It's hard for me to sleep in daylight, even when fatigued, as I am."
"Ef ye want ter git up now," she said, stopping the whell by pressing the stick against a spoke, and laying the "roll" in her hand upon the wheel-head, "I'll hev some breakfast fur ye in a jiffy. Ye kin rise an' dress while I run down ter the spring arter a fresh bucket o' water."
She covered her head with a "slat sun-bonnet," which she took from a peg in the wall, lifted a cedar waterpail from a shelf supported by other long pegs, poured its contents into a large cast-iron teakettle swinging over the fire, and whisked out of the door. Presently the notes of her hymn mingled in plaintive harmony with the sparkling but no sweeter song of a robin redbreast, twittering his delight in the warm sunshine amid the crimson apples of the tree that overhung the spring.
"Will ye hev a fresh drink?" she asked Harry, on her return.
He took the gourdful of clear, cool water, which she offered him, and drank heartily.
"Thet hez the name o' bein' the best spring in these parts," she said, pleased with his appreciation.
"An' hit's a never-failin' spring, too. We've plenty o' water the dryest times, when everybody else's goes dry."
"That IS delicious water," said Harry.
"An' now I'll git ye yor breakfast in a minnit. The teakittle's a-bilin', the coffee's ground, the pone's done, an' when I fry a little ham, everything will be ready."
As her culinary methods and utensils differed wholly from anything Harry had ever seen, he studied them with great interest sharpened not a little by a growing appetite for breakfast.
The clumsy iron teakettle swung on a hook at the end of a chain fastened somewhere in the throat of the chimney. On the rough stones forming the hearth were a half-dozen "ovens" and "skillets"--circular, cast-iron vessels standing on legs, high enough to allow a layer of live coals to be placed beneath them.
Ah, Rachel!--what of her?
He had not thought of her since a swift recollection of her words at the parting scene on the piazza had come to spur up his faltering resolution, as the regiment advanced up the side of Wildcat. Now one bitter thought of how useless all that he had gone through with the day before was to rehabilitate himself in her good opinion was speedily chased from his mind by the still bitterer one of the contempt she must feel for him, did she but know of his present abject prostration.
After all, might not the occurrences of yesterday be but the memories of a nightmare? They seemed too unreal for probability. Perhaps he was just recovering consciousness after the delirium of a fever.
The walnut sticks in the fireplace popped as sharply as pistols, and he trembled from head to foot.
"Heavens, I'm a bigger coward than ever," he said bitterly, and turning himself painfully in bed, he fixed his eyes upon the wall. "I was led to believe," he continued, "that after I had once been under fire, I would cease to dread it. Now, it seems to me more dreadful than I ever imagined it to be."
Aunt Debby's wheel hummed and droned still louder, but her pleasant tones rode on the cadences like an Aeolian harp in a rising wind:
"Man may trouble and distress me, 'T will but drive me to Thy breast; Life with trials hard may press me; Heaven will bring me sweeter rest. O, 'tis not in grief to harm me, While Thy love is left to me. O, 'twere not in joy to charm me, Were that joy unmixed with Thee."
He wondered weakly why ther were no monasteries in this land and age, to serve as harbors or refuge for those who shrank from the fearfulness of war.
He turned over again wearily, and Aunt Debby, looking toward him, encountered his wide-open eyes.
"Yer awake, air ye?" she said kindly. "Hope I didn't disturb you. I wuz tryin' ter make ez little noise ez possible."
"No, you didn't rouse me. It's hard for me to sleep in daylight, even when fatigued, as I am."
"Ef ye want ter git up now," she said, stopping the whell by pressing the stick against a spoke, and laying the "roll" in her hand upon the wheel-head, "I'll hev some breakfast fur ye in a jiffy. Ye kin rise an' dress while I run down ter the spring arter a fresh bucket o' water."
She covered her head with a "slat sun-bonnet," which she took from a peg in the wall, lifted a cedar waterpail from a shelf supported by other long pegs, poured its contents into a large cast-iron teakettle swinging over the fire, and whisked out of the door. Presently the notes of her hymn mingled in plaintive harmony with the sparkling but no sweeter song of a robin redbreast, twittering his delight in the warm sunshine amid the crimson apples of the tree that overhung the spring.
"Will ye hev a fresh drink?" she asked Harry, on her return.
He took the gourdful of clear, cool water, which she offered him, and drank heartily.
"Thet hez the name o' bein' the best spring in these parts," she said, pleased with his appreciation.
"An' hit's a never-failin' spring, too. We've plenty o' water the dryest times, when everybody else's goes dry."
"That IS delicious water," said Harry.
"An' now I'll git ye yor breakfast in a minnit. The teakittle's a-bilin', the coffee's ground, the pone's done, an' when I fry a little ham, everything will be ready."
As her culinary methods and utensils differed wholly from anything Harry had ever seen, he studied them with great interest sharpened not a little by a growing appetite for breakfast.
The clumsy iron teakettle swung on a hook at the end of a chain fastened somewhere in the throat of the chimney. On the rough stones forming the hearth were a half-dozen "ovens" and "skillets"--circular, cast-iron vessels standing on legs, high enough to allow a layer of live coals to be placed beneath them.