. Recollections of a Rebel surgeon (and other sketches); or, In the doctor's sappy days . gure,—in the list of wounded but one name, andit is burned into her very soul as she reads oppositethat name in the paper, desperately wounded. Then, the long, long days of fever and pus; forin those days, you know, Danels, we knew nothingof germs and antiseptics, nor how to preventsuppuration; we believed it necessary to , the suffering,—the days of agony, and thenights of torture, as the wound became dry and hot,and the temperature rose. By-and-bye, he is convalescent. He can sit up onthe side
. Recollections of a Rebel surgeon (and other sketches); or, In the doctor's sappy days . gure,—in the list of wounded but one name, andit is burned into her very soul as she reads oppositethat name in the paper, desperately wounded. Then, the long, long days of fever and pus; forin those days, you know, Danels, we knew nothingof germs and antiseptics, nor how to preventsuppuration; we believed it necessary to , the suffering,—the days of agony, and thenights of torture, as the wound became dry and hot,and the temperature rose. By-and-bye, he is convalescent. He can sit up onthe side of his bunk and scrawl a repetition of hisoft-told tale of love to her at home; but hope isdead in him. He is of no use in the army now; heis discharged; turned loose on a cold world, maimedand broken in health and spirit, to shift for himselfas best he can. He survives the war. He is buffetted about, hereand there, living, God knows how, as best he THE STORY OF A STUMP. Now he sells lead pencils on the granite steps ofthe Texas capitol. Buy a pencil, Doctor? ... i;:V\\\\. ■Poor old Confcd! Despised old Rebel! Yes, my boy,—a dozen of them. Here, give metwo dozen; Fm clean out of pencils at home, Isay (a pardonable lie, God knows). Neglected,—171 RECOLLECTIONS OF A REBEL SURGEON. despised,—alone. Had he been on the other side,where his brother was, he would now be drawing apension from the government. Poor old old rebel. They told you a wound wouldbe an honor,—and you a hero. Cruel mockery. Bit-ter deception. Your life blood shed, your youthwasted; all in vain. The Lost Cause is a mem-ory. So is Lucy. She married the butcher, whostaid at home and got rich. Now you are waiting,—only waiting—the timewhen you may join your comrades in arms and mis-fortune, on the other side. You see already thebivouac on the shores of eternity; you hear theripple of the waves as they dash upon its hear the bugle call to arms no more; you hearthe
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