Is there no medicine in all this? Rather, is it not worth, for purposes of cure, all, and more than all that the whole Materia Medica can offer? And yet there are men living on this earth who tell you, aye, even as though they were in earnest in the assertion, too, that they do not love the country--they prefer a city life. For such, I can only hope that retributive justice may bestow upon them a summer’s campaign in one of our city hospitals. “Have you seen our new lot of wounded?” “No. When did they come in? Any serious cases?” “Only a few days ago. Yes, ma’am, some pretty bad wounds; worse than we’ve had yet--two of them can hardly live; but take care of one of them, when you go in; he’s as cross as thunder, if you go within a mile of his bed.” This from one of the orderlies of the first ward, as my hand was upon the latch of the door. I confess the announcement was somewhat alarming, as we could then be but a few rods from his bed; however, “forewarned, forearmed.” I enter, and find the scene little different from usual, save that the vacant beds are all filled, and a few more have been added to the number, as they evidently stand much closer than they do ordinarily. I pass on to the familiar faces, and after a greeting with them, my attention is attracted by a bright, cheerful tune, whistled in a voice of uncommon sweetness. It comes from that bed where that poor arm is bandaged from shoulder to finger tip, and, right glad am I to hear it; the men who are cheerful, are, as a rule, always the first to recover. He stops as I come up. “I am glad you can whistle; it shows you are not suffering so much as I feared, when I saw your bandages.” He smiles, but says nothing; and I notice, as I come closer, that large drops of perspiration are standing in beads upon his brow; his one free hand is tightly clenched, and a nervous tremor runs over his whole frame. One of my friends in a neighboring bed says, “Ah, Miss ----, you don’t know Robinson yet, he’s a new fellow, and we all laugh at him here; he says when the pain’s just so bad he can’t bear it nohow, he tries to whistle with all his might, and he finds it does him good.” Whether from the suspension of this novel remedy for acute suffering, or a sudden increase of pain, I cannot tell; but as I turn to Robinson for a confirmation of this singular statement, the large tears are in his eyes, and roll slowly down his cheeks. He tries to smile, however, and says, “Oh, yes! it does help me wonderfully; it kind of makes me forget the pain, and think I’m at home again, where I’m always whistling. Nothing like keeping up a good heart. It don’t always ache like this--only in spells--it’ll stop after a bit. Never mind me, ma’am, I’m not half so bad as poor Darlington there.”