He was out of his head
nearly all the time. In the morning, as he died in the afternoon, S.
was standing over him, when Charlie put up his arms around S.'s neck,
and pull'd his face down and kiss'd him. S. said he knew then the end
was near. (S. stuck to him day and night to the last.) When I was home
in August, Charlie was cradling on the hill, and it was a picture to
see him walk through the grain. All work seem'd play to him. He had no
vices, any more than Nature has, and was belov'd by all who knew him.
I have written thus to you about him, for such young men belong to
you; he was of your kind. I wish you could have known him. He had the
sweetness of a child, and the strength and courage and readiness of a
young Viking. His mother and father are poor; they have a rough, hard
farm. His mother works in the field with her husband when the work
presses. She has had twelve children.
FEBRUARY DAYS
_February 7, 1878_.--Glistening sun today, with slight haze, warm
enough, and yet tart, as I sit here in the open air, down in my
country retreat, under an old cedar. For two hours I have been idly
wandering around the woods and pond, lugging my chair, picking out
choice spots to sit awhile--then up and slowly on again. All is peace
here. Of course, none of the summer noises or vitality; to-day hardly
even the winter ones. I amuse myself by exercising my voice in
recitations, and in ringing the changes on all the vocal and
alphabetical sounds. Not even an echo; only the cawing of a solitary
crow, flying at some distance.
Pages:
165
166
167
168
169
170
171
172
173
174
175
176
177
178
179
180
181
182
183
184
185
186
187
188
189