The Continental Monthly, Vol. 2, No 3, September, 1862 | Page 9

enter his land mighty shortly.
What do you say to goin'? You wanted to go last year, but mother was
sick, an' you couldn't; and now mother's gone to glory, why, show your
grit an' go. Think about it, any how.'
And Hopeful did think about it--thought till late at night of the insulted
flag, of the fierce fights and glorious victories, of the dead and the
dying lying out in the pitiless storm, of the dastardly outrages of rebel
fiends--thought of all this, with his great warm heart overflowing with

love for the dear old 'Banger,' and resolved to go. The next morning, he
notified his 'boss' of his intention to quit his service for that of Uncle
Sam. The old fellow only opened his eyes very wide, grunted, brought
out the stocking, (a striped relic of the departed Frau Kordwäner,) and
from it counted out and paid Hopeful every cent that was due him. But
there was one thing that sat heavily upon Hopeful's mind. He was in a
predicament that all of us are liable to fall into--he was in love, and
with Christina, Herr Kordwäner's daughter. Christina was a plump
maiden, with a round, rosy face, an extensive latitude of shoulders, and
a general plentitude and solidity of figure. All these she had; but what
had captivated Hopeful's eye was her trim ankle, as it had appeared to
him one morning, encased in a warm white yarn stocking of her own
knitting. From this small beginning, his great heart had taken in the
whole of her, and now he was desperately in love. Two or three times
he had essayed to tell her of his proposed departure; but every time that
the words were coming to his lips, something rushed up into his throat
ahead of them, and he couldn't speak. At last, after walking home from
church with her on Sunday evening, he held out his hand and blurted
out:
'Well, good-by. We're off to-morrow.'
'Off! Where?'
'I've enlisted.'
Christina didn't faint. She didn't take out her delicate and daintily
perfumed mouchoir, to hide the tears that were not there. She looked at
him for a moment, while two great real tears rolled down her cheeks,
and then--precipitated all her charms right into his arms. Hopeful stood
it manfully--rather liked it, in fact. But this is a tableau that we've no
right to be looking at; so let us pass by how they parted--with what
tears and embraces, and extravagant protestations of undying affection,
and wild promises of eternal remembrance; there is no need of telling,
for we all know how foolish young people will be under such
circumstances. We older heads know all about such little matters, and
what they amount to. Oh! yes, certainly we do.

The next morning found Hopeful, with a dozen others, in charge of the
lieutenant, and on their way to join the regiment. Hopeful's first
experience of camp-life was not a singular one. He, like the rest of us,
at first exhibited the most energetic awkwardness in drilling. Like the
rest of us, he had occasional attacks of home-sickness; and as he stood
at his post on picket in the silent night-watches, while the camps lay
quietly sleeping in the moonlight, his thoughts would go back to his
far-away home, and the little shop, and the plentiful charms of the
fair-haired Christina. So he went on, dreaming sweet dreams of home,
but ever active and alert, eager to learn and earnest to do his duty,
silencing all selfish suggestions of his heart with the simple logic of a
pure patriotism.
'Hopeful,' he would say, 'the Banger's took care o' you all your life, an'
now you're here to take care of it. See that you do it the best you know
how.'
It would be more thrilling and interesting, and would read better, if we
could take our hero to glory amid the roar of cannon and muskets,
through a storm of shot and shell, over a serried line of glistening
bayonets. But strict truth--a matter of which newspaper correspondents,
and sensational writers, generally seem to have a very misty
conception--forbids it.
It was only a skirmish--a bush-whacking fight for the possession of a
swamp. A few companies were deployed as skirmishers, to drive out
the rebels.
'Now, boys,' shouted the captain, 'after'em! Shoot to kill, not to scare
'em!'
'Ping! ping!' rang the rifles.
'Z-z-z-z-vit!' sang the bullets.
On they went, crouching among the bushes, creeping along under the
banks of the brook, cautiously peering from behind trees in search of
'butternuts.'

Hopeful was in the advance; his hat was lost, and his hair more
defiantly bristling than ever. Firmly grasping his rifle, he pushed on,
carefully watching every tree and bush, A rebel sharp-shooter started to
run from one