Aunt 'Liza's Hero, and Other Stories. Johnston Annie Fellows
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Mac has had his dues at last. It was a long time, but he's had justice done him at last!"
THE CAPTAIN'S CELEBRATION
"Is there anything I can do for you, captain?" Doctor Morris had made the rounds of the hospital and was standing beside the bed in a narrow little room at the end of the hall. He took the old man's feeble hand in one of his firm ones, and with the other gently stroked the white hair back from his wrinkled forehead. This seemed to smooth away some pain, too, for the faded blue eyes looked up at him with a grateful smile.
"Yes," he answered, "there is. I don't like to trouble you, doctor, but I do want a piece of an old broomstick, and if I could have it early in the morning, I'd be very much obliged to you, sir."
"A broomstick!" repeated the doctor, in amazement, wondering if the old man's mind was beginning to wander. "What under the sun could you do with it?"
A faint smile crossed the captain's face. Then a spell of coughing delayed the answer for a moment.
"I want to carve something," he panted, "and broom-handle wood is easy to cut. The nurse has been like an angel to me all these weeks that I have been in the hospital. Ever since they moved me into this room by myself, I've known that I haven't much longer to live, and I want to leave her something to show that I appreciate her kindness, and was grateful for it."
The doctor pressed the old man's hand as he went on: "I've been thinking I would like to make her a little chain. My grandfather taught me to carve such things when I was a lad. He was a Swiss, you know, and followed my mother over to this country soon after I was born. He was so old that all he could do was just to sit under the trees and carve little toys to amuse the children. I have his pocket-knife yet," he added, with a smile of childish satisfaction that made the old face pathetic.
He looked down at his right hand, so twisted out of shape that it was nearly useless. "I can't do as good work as I used to do thirty years ago, before that Minie ball crippled me," he said. "But Miss Mary will make allowances; she will know that I remembered and was grateful, don't you think?" he asked, anxiously.
"Most certainly," answered the doctor, stooping to arrange the patient's pillows more comfortably about him. "But, captain, I am afraid that I can't allow you to undertake anything that will be a tax on your strength. You haven't any to spare."
So deep a shade of disappointment crept into the old man's wistful eyes that the doctor felt an ache in his throat, and drove it away with a little laugh. "Pshaw!" he said, hastily. "You shall have a mile of broomsticks if you want them. I'll send my son Max up with one inside the next hour."
The gong had just struck the signal for dismissal in the third-ward school building, when the busy physician drove up to the curbstone in his sleigh to get his boy. "Max will be down in a minute, Doctor Morris!" called a boy, as he ran past the sleigh with his skates slung over his shoulder. "Miss Clay kept some of 'em to see about celebrating Washington's Birthday."
"Thank you, Ned," answered the doctor. He drew the robes closer about him as he walked the horse up and down, for there was a keen wind blowing this cold February afternoon. Presently a group of boys loitered by and stood on the corner, waiting for the rest of Miss Clay's pupils to join them.
"I'm glad Miss Clay isn't my teacher!" one of them exclaimed, in a loud voice. "Skating's too good now to waste time learning to spout pieces."
"Well, I think it's about time to give George Washington a rest," said the largest boy in the group. "He's a back number, and I'll tell her so, too, if she asks me to say any of her old pieces."
"That's a pretty way to talk about the Father of your Country!" piped up a little fellow in spectacles, who was sliding on the ice in the gutter. "Back number! I just dare you to say that to Miss Clay!"
The doctor overheard this, but he did not hear the quarrel that followed, for Max came running down just then, and climbed into the sleigh.
"You're late to-day, my boy. What's the trouble?"
"Oh, Miss Clay kept us to arrange a programme for Washington's Birthday, and nobody wanted to take part. We're all tired of the same old thing year after year – just songs and recitations and dialogues about the same old fellow!"
"A fine lot of patriots this next generation is going to turn out!" said the doctor, so sternly that Max gave him a quick glance of surprise, and then flushed at his evident disapproval. The grim look crept into the man's eyes that was always there when he was absorbed in a critical case.
"O papa, are we going home?" cried Max, in a disappointed tone, as the horse turned in that direction.
"For a few minutes," answered Doctor Morris. "I want you to take something to one of my patients at the hospital. I'll leave you with him while I go on to the Berridge place."
Max, who had expected a long sleigh-ride, forgot his disappointment when he found that Captain Wilshire was an old soldier, who bore the scars of more than one battle. An internal wound, received at Shiloh, still troubled him at times, and exposure during the last year of the war had brought on the consumption that was now slowly taking his life away.
"He is one of the truest patriots it has ever been my honour to meet," said the doctor. "I have known many statesmen in my time, several generals and two Presidents. Any one of them might well be proud to take off his hat to Joe Wilshire. When you see the old hero lying alone, Max, in that cheerless little room in the hospital, I want you to think of the reason why I so greatly respect him. It is not simply because he was brave in battle, or because his heroic cheerfulness kept him alive through half a year in Libby Prison, or because he came home with the seeds of disease planted in his system and his good right hand crippled and useless. Many a man has encountered these tests, and yet has lost his zeal for his country as soon as the cannon smoke cleared away and the martial music was done."
"Then why is it, papa?" asked Max, for they had reached the house, and the doctor was looking in the bottom of the sleigh for the hitching-strap.
"Well, when he came home, he was of course poor. He made a meagre living for his wife and baby with only a few acres of land and of fruit-trees with which to do it. Several times his old comrades suggested to him that he ought to apply for some fat government office, but he always said, 'Boys, I know that you mean well, and that you and my friends could probably get me in on the score of my being a disabled soldier; but I know and you know that I am not competent to fill such an office. If I could fill an office, and at the same time serve my country by doing so, I'd unhesitatingly take one. But I'd only be serving myself by filling my pockets at the government's expense. No, I'm obliged to you, boys, but I can't feel that it would be exactly honourable.'
"Now that's patriotism, Max, of the highest type, showing unselfish loyalty and love of country!" exclaimed the doctor, as he sprang out of the sleigh. "I was disturbed and hurt just now, when I heard the boys talking about Washington being a 'back number.' It hurt because there is some truth in it. Wars call out such generals, but there are too few men in these times of peace who step into office with Washington's high, unselfish motives. And I fear the number is few of men who will deliberately give up the honour and emolument of office because they believe some one else can render better service, or because principle pulls harder than public purse-strings. Yes, such patriotism is getting to be a 'back number' – so far back that it has grown burdensome for some people to honour it, even once a year."
Max had seldom heard his father speak so indignantly before, and looked at him in surprise as he gave a final fierce tug at the knot he had tied in the halter.
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