His wife had then sat beside him, while his
little ones played here and there among the trees and shrubbery.
They would hear the same song to-day; he would never hear it
again. That counted for little; but the thought of their sitting
behind the vines and listening to their favorite bird, spring
after spring and summer after summer, and he ever absent,
overwhelmed him.
"Oh, Gertrude, my wife, my wife! Oh, my children!" he groaned.
His breast heaved with a great sigh; the blood welled afresh from
his wound; what seemed a mortal weakness crept over him; and he
thought he died.
* * * * * * *
"Say, Eb, is he done gone?"
"'Clar to grashus if I know. 'Pears mighty like it." These words
were spoken by two stout negroes, who had stolen to the
battlefield as the sounds of conflict died away.
"I'm doggoned if I tink dat he's dead. He's only swoonded,"
asserted the man addressed as Eb. "'Twon't do to lebe 'im here to
die, Zack."
"Sartin not; we'd hab bad luck all our days."
"I reckon ole man Pearson will keep him; and his wife's a po'ful
nuss.
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