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 that gave the impression that the hero had been in the forefront of every important action of the war?  Well, it doesn’t matter much.  The citizen was sitting there under his own vine, the comfortable citizen of a free republic, because of the wounds in this cheerful and imaginative old wanderer.  There, that is enough, sir, quite enough.  I am no beggar.  I thought perhaps you had heard of the Ninth Vermont.  Woods is my name—­Sergeant Woods.  I trust some time, sir, I shall be in a position to return the compliment.  Good-evening, sir; God bless your honor! and accept the blessing of an old soldier.  And the dear old hero goes down the darkening avenue, not so steady of bearing as when he withstood the charge of Pickett on Cemetery Hill, and with the independence of the American citizen who deserves well of his country, makes his way to the nearest hospitable tavern.