wharf where the fishing-smacks lay, to see again the friends whom they left there, and perhaps to take up the occupations that were laid down when they seized the musket in 1861.  Alas! it is not their home anymore; the friends are no longer there; and what chance is there of occupation for a man who is now feeble in body and who has the habit of campaigning?  This generation has passed on to other things.  It looks upon the hero as an illustration in the story of the war, which it reads like history.  The veteran starts out from the shelter of the Home.  One evening, towards sunset, the comfortable citizen, taking the mild air on his piazza, sees an interesting figure approach.  Its dress is half military, half that of the wanderer whose attention to his personal appearance is only spasmodic.

The veteran gives the military salute, he holds himself erect, almost too erect, and his speech is voluble and florid.  It is a delightful evening; it seems to be a good growing-time; the country looks prosperous.  He is sorry to be any trouble or interruption, but the fact is—­yes, he is on his way to his old home in Vermont; it seems like he would like to taste some home cooking again, and sit in the old orchard, and perhaps lay his bones, what is left of them, in the burying-ground on the hill.  He pulls out his well-worn papers as he talks; there is the honorable discharge, the permit of the Home, and the pension.  Yes, Uncle Sam is generous; it is the most generous government God ever made, and he would willingly fight for it again.  Thirty dollars a month, that is what he has; he is not a beggar; he wants for nothing.  But the pension is not payable till the end of the month.  It is entirely his own obligation, his own fault; he can fight, but he cannot lie, and nobody is to blame but himself; but last night he fell in with some old comrades at Southdown, and, well, you know how it is.  He had plenty of money when he left the Home, and he is not asking for anything now, but if he had a few dollars for his railroad fare to the next city, he could walk the rest of the way.  Wounded?  Well, if I stood out here against the light you could just see through me, that’s all.  Bullets?  It’s no use to try to get ’em out.  But, sir, I’m not complaining.  It had to be done; the country had to be saved; and I’d do it again if it were necessary.  Had any hot fights?  Sir, I was at Gettysburg!  The veteran straightens up, and his eyes flash as if he saw again that sanguinary field.  Off goes the citizen’s hat.  Children, come out here; here is one of the soldiers of Gettysburg!  Yes, sir; and this knee—­you see I can’t bend it much—­got stiffened at Chickamauga; and this scratch here in the neck was from a bullet at Gaines Mill; and this here, sir—­thumping his chest—­you notice I don’t dare to cough much —­after the explosion of a shell at Petersburg I found myself lying on my-back, and the only one of my squad who was not killed outright.  Was it the imagination of the citizen or of the soldier