Written for readers whom I had been accustomed to address familiarly, and among whom the most usefully happy moments of my life had passed; and composed for the most part amid the scenes which they describe, these letters to the North Moore Street School were never intended for adult readers, nor to assume the shape and substance of a book. In composing them I carefully avoided that "baby-talk" which some people think simplicity, and that paltriness of subject which by many is thought to be alone within the grasp and comprehension of a child. The greatest of children's stories are those which were written for men. "Robinson Crusoe" and "Gulliver's Travels," amid the annual wreck of a thousand "juvenile publications," survive, and pass from generation to generation, known to us best as the attractive reading of our early life. This enviable lot is secured to them by the severe purity of their English composition--the simplicity of their style--the natural minuteness of their description, but above all by the real greatness of their authors, who in striving to be simple, never condescend to be _little_. The "Goody Two Shoes" of Goldsmith, which was written for children, is hardly rescued by his charming style; but the "Vicar of Wakefield," which was written for men, has _ascended_ to be a story-book for childhood, and is speedily becoming the exclusive property of the young. Therefore while I sought to instruct a few of the children of the United States by carrying them unconsciously through the details of military life, and unfolding to them some of the better scenes in their country's great struggle, still I selected just such incidents and topics as I would have chosen for their fathers and mothers, only endeavoring, with greater strictness, to blend in the narration simplicity with elegance. SKETCHES OF THE WAR. I. THE HOSPITAL. There was a young man in my squadron whom I shall call Frank Gillham. He was the son of a Wisconsin farmer, and had enlisted in the ranks as a patriotic duty. Frank was young and handsome, a fine horseman, and rode one of the handsomest horses in the squadron. He was just the person whom one would suppose sure to rise from the ranks and perform many a gallant feat during the war. A few weeks ago the horse was reported sick. It had but a cold, and we thought that a few days would find it well again. But the cold grew worse and changed to pneumonia, a disease of the lungs fearfully prevalent here among both men and horses. Frank nursed and watched his horse day and night, counting the beatings of its pulse, consulting the farrier, administering the medicine as though the horse were his best friend. It was fruitless labor; for the poor animal stood hour after hour panting with drooping head, occasionally looking sadly up as if to say, "you can do me no good," until at last it died. We all felt sorry for the poor horse, but did not think his death was the forerunner of a greater loss.