“A month off duty and a faithful nurse
Worked wonders and my head was whole again—­
Nay—­to be candid—­cracked a little yet. 
My nurse was Paul.  Albeit his left arm,
Flesh-wounded, pained him sorely for a time,
With filial care he dressed my battered head,
And wrote for me to anxious friends at home—­
But never wrote a letter for himself. 
Thinking of this one day, I spoke of it:—­
A cloud came o’er his face.

“‘My friends,’ he said,
‘Are here among my comrades in the camp.’ 
That made a mystery and I questioned him: 
He gave no answer—­or evasive ones—­
Seeming to shrink from question, and to wrap
Himself within himself and live within.

“Again we joined our regiment and marched;
Over the hills and dales of Maryland
Along the famous river wound our way. 
On picket-duty at the frequent fords
For weary, laggard months were we employed
Guarding the broad Potomac, while our foes,
Stealthily watching for their human game,
Lurked like Apaches on the wooded shores. 
Bands of enemy’s cavalry by night
Along the line of river prowled, and sought
To dash across and raid in Maryland. 
Three regiments guarded miles of river-bank,
And drilled alternately, and one was ours. 
Off picket duty, alike in fair or foul,
With knapsacks on and bearing forty rounds,
From morn till night we drilled—­battalion-drill—­
Often at double-quick for weary hours—­
Bearing our burdens in the blazing sun,
Till strong men staggered from the ranks and fell. 
Aye, many a hardy man in those hard days
Was drilled and disciplined into his grave.  Arose
Murmurs of discontent, and loud complaints
Fell on dull ears till patience was worn out
And mutiny was hinted.  As for Paul
I never heard a murmur from his lips;
Nor did he ask a reason for the things
Unreasonable and hard required of him,
But straightway did his duty just as if
The nation’s fate hung on it.  I pitied Paul;
Slender of form and delicate, he bore
The toils and duties of the hardiest. 
Ill from exposure, or fatigued and worn,
On picket hungered, shivering in the rain,
Or sweltering in full dress, with knapsack on,
Beneath the blaze of the mid-summer sun,
He held his spirit—­always still the same
Patient and earnest, sad and silent Paul.

“We posted pickets two by two.  At night,
By turns each comrade slept and took the watch. 
Once in September, in a drenching storm,
Three days and nights with neither tent nor fire
Paul and a comrade held a picket-post. 
The equinox raged madly.  Chilling winds
In angry gusts roared from the northern hills,
Dashing the dismal rain-clouds into showers
That fell in torrents over all the land. 
In camp the soldiers crouched in dripping tents,
Or shivered by the camp-fires.  I was ill
And gladly sought the shelter of a hut.