We know thee not, sad sister! Whose name so oft he breathed, Till it would seem that thoughts of thee Round his whole being wreathed; But by the love he bore for thee, We catch a glimpse of thine; And, by the bond of sisterhood, We meet beside his shrine. We meet to tell thee, stricken soul! That strangers held thy place-- Sisters by Nature’s right, and he, Brother, by right of race. While pillow’d tenderly his head, Cooled was his burning brain By loving hands; and one fair curl, Severed for thee, sweet pain! If comfort be not mockery In such a harrowing hour, O, find it in his cherishing, And let the thought have power; Thy brain must turn, or so thou deem’st, He, needing love and care, Knowing ’twas granted, thou canst kneel And ask for strength to bear. O men, his brothers, bear in mind, For all, our dear Lord died! Souls own but one Commission-- Love of The Crucified! Right gallant are the Officers-- Men, noble, brave, and true; But when you breathe a Prayer for them, Say one for Privates too. “LITTLE CORNING.” Let no one imagine that hospital life is all gloom. Sickness and suffering are, of course, the normal condition, but we try to crowd in all the brightness we can; games, gayety, and gladness, have their place. One such presence as that of “Little Corning” must insure some sunshine. How can I describe that quaint, droll, merry little sergeant, once seen, never to be forgotten? “Little Corning,” we always called him, to distinguish him from our tall wardmaster of the same name; and most appropriate, too, did it seem to his little, short, squat figure. I always contended that he had been a sailor, from the roll and pitch in his gait, and a certain way he had of giving a lurch whenever he wanted to reach anything near him. He assured me most positively that such was not the case; but I still continue to think that he must have been, in some former state of existence, if not in this. Many men have been convicted before now on circumstantial evidence, why should not he be also? Perhaps he did not choose to confess the fact--no man is bound to criminate himself--therefore I see no good reason for giving up my first conviction, and many for holding it; ergo, I repeat that I think he had been a sailor. I never heard a merrier laugh, or knew a happier nature. He seemed to possess the blessed faculty of shedding sunshine and joy all around him; many a harsh word has been hushed, many an incipient quarrel checked, by his odd, dry way of placing things in a ludicrous light, and thus changing churlishness into cheerfulness, moroseness into merriment. Momus certainly presided at his birth, touched him with his wand, and claimed him for his own.