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THE trees began softly to sing
a hymn of twi- light. The sun
sank until slanted bronze rays
struck the forest. There was
a lull in the noises of insects
as if they had bowed their beaks
and were making a devotional
pause. There was silence save
for the chanted chorus of the
trees.
Then, upon this stillness,
there suddenly broke a tremendous
clangor of sounds. A crimson
roar came from the distance.
The youth stopped. He was transfixed
by this terrific medley of all
noises. It was as if worlds were
being rended. There was the rip-
ping sound of musketry and the
breaking crash of the artillery.
His mind flew in all directions.
He conceived the two armies to
be at each other panther fashion.
He listened for a time. Then
he began to run in the direction
of the battle. He saw that it
was an ironical thing for him
to be run- ning thus toward that
which he had been at such
82 pains to avoid. But he said,
in substance, to him- self that
if the earth and the moon were
about to clash, many persons
would doubtless plan to get upon
the roofs to witness the collision.
As he ran, he became aware
that the forest had stopped its
music, as if at last becoming
capable of hearing the foreign
sounds. The trees hushed and
stood motionless. Everything
seemed to be listening to the
crackle and clatter and ear-
shaking thunder. The chorus pealed
over the still earth.
It suddenly occurred to the
youth that the fight in which
he had been was, after all, but
perfunctory popping. In the hearing
of this present din he was doubtful
if he had seen real battle scenes.
This uproar explained a celes-
tial battle; it was tumbling
hordes a-struggle in the air.
Reflecting, he saw a sort of
a humor in the point of view
of himself and his fellows during
the late encounter. They had
taken themselves and the enemy
very seriously and had imagined
that they were deciding the war.
Individuals must have supposed
that they were cutting the letters
of their names deep into everlasting
tablets of brass, or enshrining
their reputations forever in
the hearts of their countrymen,
while, as to fact, the affair
would appear in printed reports
under a meek and immaterial title.
But he saw that it was good,
else, he said, in battle every
one would surely run save forlorn
hopes and their ilk.
He went rapidly on. He wished
to come to the edge of the forest
that he might peer out.
As he hastened, there passed
through his mind pictures of
stupendous conflicts. His accumulated
thought upon such subjects was
used to form scenes. The noise
was as the voice of an eloquent
being, describing.
Sometimes the brambles formed
chains and tried to hold him
back. Trees, confronting him,
stretched out their arms and
forbade him to pass. After its
previous hostility this new resistance
of the forest filled him with
a fine bitterness. It seemed
that Nature could not be quite
ready to kill him.
But he obstinately took roundabout
ways, and presently he was where
he could see long gray walls
of vapor where lay battle lines.
The voices of cannon shook him.
The musketry sounded in long
irregular surges that played
havoc with his ears. He stood
regardant for a moment. His eyes
had an awestruck expression.
He gawked in the direction of
the fight.
Presently he proceeded again
on his forward way. The battle
was like the grinding of an immense
and terrible machine to him.
Its com- plexities and powers,
its grim processes, fascinated
him. He must go close and see
it produce corpses.
He came to a fence and clambered
over it. On the far side, the
ground was littered with clothes
and guns. A newspaper, folded
up, lay in the dirt. A dead soldier
was stretched with his face hidden
in his arm. Farther off there
was a group of four or five corpses
keeping mournful company. A hot
sun had blazed upon the spot.
In this place the youth felt
that he was an invader. This
forgotten part of the battle
ground was owned by the dead
men, and he hurried, in the vague
apprehension that one of the
swollen forms would rise and
tell him to begone.
He came finally to a road from
which he could see in the distance
dark and agitated bodies of troops,
smoke-fringed. In the lane was
a blood-stained crowd streaming
to the rear. The wounded men
were cursing, groaning, and wailing.
In the air, always, was a mighty
swell of sound that it seemed
could sway the earth. With the
courageous words of the artillery
and the spiteful sentences of
the musketry mingled red cheers.
And from this region of noises
came the steady current of the
maimed.
One of the wounded men had
a shoeful of blood. He hopped
like a schoolboy in a game. He
was laughing hysterically.
One was swearing that he had
been shot in the arm through
the commanding general's misman-
agement of the army. One was
marching with an air imitative
of some sublime drum major. Upon
his features was an unholy mixture
of merriment and agony. As he
marched he sang a bit of doggerel
in a high and quavering voice:
"Sing a song
'a vic'try, A pocketful 'a
bullets, Five an'
twenty dead men Baked in a--pie."
Parts of the procession limped
and staggered to this tune.
Another had the gray seal of
death already upon his face.
His lips were curled in hard
lines and his teeth were clinched.
His hands were bloody from where
he had pressed them upon his
wound. He seemed to be awaiting
the moment when he should pitch
headlong. He stalked like the
specter of a soldier, his eyes
burning with the power of a stare
into the unknown.
There were some who proceeded
sullenly, full of anger at their
wounds, and ready to turn upon
anything as an obscure cause.
An officer
was carried along by two privates.
He was peevish. "Don't
joggle so, Johnson, yeh fool," he
cried. "Think m' leg is made
of iron? If yeh can't carry me
decent, put me down an' let some
one else do it."
He bellowed
at the tottering crowd who
blocked the quick march
of his bearers. "Say, make way
there, can't yeh? Make way, dickens
take it all."
They sulkily parted and went
to the road- sides. As he was
carried past they made pert remarks
to him. When he raged in reply
and threatened them, they told
him to be damned.
The shoulder of one of the
tramping bearers knocked heavily
against the spectral soldier
who was staring into the unknown.
The youth joined this crowd
and marched along with it. The
torn bodies expressed the awful
machinery in which the men had
been entangled.
Orderlies and couriers occasionally
broke through the throng in the
roadway, scattering wounded men
right and left, galloping on
fol- lowed by howls. The melancholy
march was continually disturbed
by the messengers, and sometimes
by bustling batteries that came
swing- ing and thumping down
upon them, the officers shouting
orders to clear the way.
There was a tattered man, fouled
with dust, blood and powder stain
from hair to shoes, who trudged
quietly at the youth's side.
He was lis- tening with eagerness
and much humility to the lurid
descriptions of a bearded sergeant.
His lean features wore an expression
of awe and ad- miration. He was
like a listener in a country
store to wondrous tales told
among the sugar barrels. He eyed
the story-teller with unspeak-
able wonder. His mouth was agape
in yokel fashion.
The sergeant,
taking note of this, gave pause
to his elaborate
history while he administered
a sardonic comment. "Be keerful,
honey, you 'll be a-ketchin'
flies," he said.
The tattered man shrank back
abashed.
After a time he began to sidle
near to the youth, and in a different
way try to make him a friend.
His voice was gentle as a girl's
voice and his eyes were pleading.
The youth saw with surprise that
the soldier had two wounds, one
in the head, bound with a blood-soaked
rag, and the other in the arm,
making that member dangle like
a broken bough.
After they
had walked together for some
time the tattered man
mustered sufficient courage to
speak. "Was pretty good fight,
wa'n't it?" he timidly said.
The youth, deep in thought, glanced
up at the bloody and grim figure
with its lamblike eyes. "What?"
"Was pretty
good fight, wa'n't it?
"Yes," said
the youth shortly. He quick-
ened his pace.
But the other hobbled industriously
after him. There was an air of
apology in his manner, but he
evidently thought that he needed
only to talk for a time, and
the youth would perceive that
he was a good fellow.
"Was pretty good fight, wa'n't
it?" he began in a small voice,
and then he achieved the forti-
tude to continue. "Dern me if
I ever see fellers fight so.
Laws, how they did fight! I knowed
th' boys 'd like when they onct
got square at it. Th' boys ain't
had no fair chanct up t' now,
but this time they showed what
they was. I knowed it 'd turn
out this way. Yeh can't lick
them boys. No, sir! They're fighters,
they be."
He breathed a deep breath of
humble ad- miration. He had looked
at the youth for en- couragement
several times. He received none,
but gradually he seemed to get
absorbed in his subject.
"I was talkin'
'cross pickets with a boy from
Georgie, onct,
an' that boy, he ses, 'Your fellers
'll all run like hell when they
onct hearn a gun,' he ses. 'Mebbe
they will,' I ses, 'but I don't
b'lieve none of it,' I ses; 'an'
b'jiminey,' I ses back t' 'um,
'mebbe your fellers 'll all run
like hell when they onct hearn
a gun,' I ses. He larfed. Well,
they didn't run t' day, did they,
hey? No, sir! They fit, an' fit,
an' fit."
His homely face was suffused
with a light of love for the
army which was to him all things
beautiful and powerful.
After a time
he turned to the youth. "Where yeh hit, ol' boy?" he
asked in a brotherly tone.
The youth felt instant panic
at this question, although at
first its full import was not
borne in upon him.
"What?" he
asked.
"Where yeh hit?" repeated
the tattered man.
"Why," began the youth, "I--I--that
is-- why--I--"
He turned away suddenly and
slid through the crowd. His brow
was heavily flushed, and his
fingers were picking nervously
at one of his buttons. He bent
his head and fastened his eyes
studiously upon the button as
if it were a little problem.
The tattered man looked after
him in aston- ishment.
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