For the third time in my life, and the last, I wanted to go to the
war, when they went, and oh! so badly. Not to fight,--I had had
all I needed of that at home,--but to tell the truth about what
was going on in Cuba. The _Outlook_ offered me that post, and the
_Sun_ agreed heartily; but once more the door was barred against
me. Two of my children had scarlet fever, my oldest son had gone
to Washington trying to enlist with the Rough Riders, and the one
next in line was engineering to get into the navy on his own hook.
My wife raised no objection to my going, if it was duty; but her
tears fell silently--and I stayed. It was "three times and out."
I shall never go to the war now unless in defence of my own home,
which may God forbid. Within a year I knew that, had I gone then,
I should most likely not have returned. I had received notice that
to my dreams of campaigning in that way there was an end. Thankful
that I had been spared, I yet took leave of them with a sigh; most
illogically, for I hate the sight of human suffering and of brutal
passions aroused.
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