“Oh! no; not badly, only hit in the shoulder; it’s pretty painful, but I guess I’ll be all right in a few days.” How little could I imagine, from his words, what I found out a few days later, that I was standing at that moment by one of the very worst wounds that had come in. The surgeon of the ward told me that he considered it a most critical case, and that, had the shot gone one half inch further, it must have been certainly fatal. It seemed that Dick and I between us, had discovered the two most severely wounded men in the whole hospital. For many weeks after that they were dangerously ill, requiring close and careful watching every hour, but rewarding us in the end with the hope of perfect recovery. “I am glad to hear it,” said I, in answer to his too sanguine view of his wound, “for you don’t look as if you had seen much sickness, and maybe you wouldn’t bear it very well.” “I’ve never been a day in bed in my life before this, and I hardly know what to make of it. I’m an Ohio boy, used to the country and living in the open air, and I couldn’t stand being shut up here at all; it’s as bad as the Libby prison.” Fancy my horror. Our hospital compared to the Libby prison! “Oh! you mustn’t say that; we try to do everything here to make the confinement as easy as possible to the men, and to help them to forget that it is a hospital. I’m sure you can’t have been in the ‘Libby’ ever, have you?” “Oh! no, indeed, never; but it seems just as bad to me to be fastened in here.” “Well, some day, soon, I will bring you in some of our men who have been there; let them talk to you and give you their experience, and then, when you know us better, I will ask you whether you still think the same. But now I must really say good-night. I will come to the ‘prison,’ to-morrow, to see how you all are.” “Thank you; you’ll be very welcome; and maybe,” added he, laughing, “it won’t seem so like it when I get at home here;” and once more extending his hand, he said “good-night.” So ended the memorable week of July, 1863, which followed the glorious Gettysburg fight. The tide of war has rolled back from our homes; the highly strung nerves are calmed; the dead sleep in the quiet graves which a people’s love has provided for them on the field of their fame; the wounded, so lately massed in our midst, are scattered; some--too few, alas!--returned, cured, to their regiments; others (the saddest part of the war) discharged from service, disabled and crippled for life; while for the remainder, listen to the words of that pale boy--as I raise his head to give him the needed stimulant, the notes of music fall on my ear. “What is that, Henry?” “What is that, do you ask, Miss ----? That is only some of our poor Gettysburg boys _going home_;” and I recognize the dead march, and I see the reversed arms, as the mournful train winds by.