Becomes entangled in A highly important correspondence.

A light spring wagon, inscribed “United States Sanitary Commission,” drove through the camp of the 200th Ind., under the charge of a dignified man with a clerical cast of countenance, who walked alongside, looking at the soldiers and into the tents, and stopping from time to time to hand a can of condensed milk to this one, a jar of jam to another, and bunches of tracts to whomsoever would take them.

Shorty was sitting in front of the house bathing his aching feet.  The man stopped before him, and looked compassionately at his swollen pedals.

“Your feet are in a very bad way, my man,” he said sadly.

“Yes, durn ’em,” said Shorty impatiently.  “I don’t seem to git ’em well nohow.  Must’ve got ’em pizened when I was runnin’ through the briars.”

“Probably some ivy or poison-oak, or nightshade among the briars.  Poison-oak is very bad, and nightshade is deadly.  I knew a man once that had to have his hand amputated on account of getting poisoned by something that scratched him-nightshade, ivy, or poison-oak.  I’m afraid your feet are beginning to mortify.”

“Well, you are a Job’s comforter,” thought Shorty.

“You’d be nice to send for when a man’s sick.  You’d scare him to death, even if there was no danger o’ his dyin’.”

“My friend,” said the man, turning to his wagon, “I’ve here a nice pair of home-made socks, which I will give you, and which will come in nicely if you save your legs.  If you don’t, give them to some needy man.  Here are also some valuable tracts, full of religious consolation and advice, which it will do your soul good to peruse and study.”

Shorty took the gift thankfully, and turned over the tracts with curiosity.

“On the Sin of Idolatry,” he read the title of the first.

“Now, why’d he give that?  What graven image have I bin worshipin’?  What gods of wood and stone have I bin bowin’ down before in my blindness?  There’ve bin times when I thought a good deal more of a Commissary tent then I did of a church, but I got cured of that as soon as I got a square meal.  I don’t see where I have bin guilty of idolatry.

“On the Folly of Self-Pride,” he read from the next one.  “Humph, there may be something in that that I oughter read.  I am very liable to git stuck on myself, and think how purty I am, and how graceful, and how sweetly I talk, and what fine cloze I wear.  Especially the cloze.  I’ll put that tract in my pocket an’ read it after awhile.”

“On the Evils of Gluttony,” he next read.  “Well, that’s a timely tract, for a fact.  I’m in the habit o’ goin’ around stuffin’ myself, as this says, with delicate viands, and drinkin’ fine wines-’makin’ my belly a god.’  The man what wrote this must’ve bin intimately acquainted with the sumptuous meals which Uncle Sam sets before his nephews.  He must’ve knowed all about the delicate, apetizin’ flavor of a slab o’ fat pork four inches thick, taken off the side of the hog that’s uppermost when he’s laying on his back.  And how I gormandize on hardtack baked in the first place for the Revolutioners, and kept over ever since.  That feller knows jest what he’s writin’ about.  I’d like to exchange photographs with him.”

“Thou Shalt Not Swear.”  Shorty read a few words, got red in the face, whistled softly, crumpled the tract up, and threw it away.

“On the Sin of Dancing,” Shorty yelled with laughter.  “Me dance with these hoofs!  And he thinks likely mortification’ll set in, and I’ll lose ’em altogether.  Well, he oughter be harnessed up with Thompson’s colt.  Which’d come out ahead in the race for the fool medal?  But these seem to be nice socks.  Fine yarn, well-knit, and by stretching a little I think I kin get ’em on.  I declare, they’re beauties.  I’ll jest make Si sick with envy when I show ’em to him.  I do believe they lay over anything his mother ever sent him.  Hello, what’s this?”

He extracted from one of them a note in a small, white envelope, on one end of which was a blue Zouave, with red face, hands, cap and gaiters, brandishing a red sword in defense of a Star Spangled Banner which he held in his left hand.

“Must belong to the Army o’ the Potomac,” mused Shorty, studying the picture.  “They wear all sorts o’ outlandish uniforms there.  That red-headed woodpecker’d be shot before he’d git a mile o’ the rebels out here.  All that hollyhock business’d jest be meat for their sharpshooters.  And what’s he doin’ with that ’ere sword?  I wouldn’t give that Springfield rifle o’ mine for all the swords that were ever hammered out.  When I reach for a feller 600 or even 800 yards away I kin fetch him every time.  He’s my meat unless he jumps behind a tree.  But as for swords, I never could see no sense in ’em except for officers to put on lugs with.  I wouldn’t pack one a mile for a wagonload of ’em.”

He looked at the address on the envelope.  Straight lines had been scratched across with a pin.  On these was written, in a cramped, mincing hand: 

“To the brave soljer who Gits these Socks.”

“Humph,” mused Shorty, “that’s probably for me.  I’ve got the socks, and I’m a soldier.  As to whether I’m brave or not’s a matter of opinion.  Sometimes I think I am; agin, when there’s a dozen rebel guns pinted at my head, not 10 feet away, I think I’m not.  But we’ll play that I’m brave enough to have this intended for me, and I’ll open it.”

On the sheet of paper inside was another valorous red-and-blue Zouave defending the flag with drawn sword.  On it was written: 

     “Bad Ax, Wisconsin,

     “Janooary the 14th, 1863.

“Braiv Soljer:  I doant know who you air, or whair you may bee; I only know that you air serving your country, and that is enuf to entitle to the gratitude and afl’ection of every man and woman who has the breath of patriotism in their bodies.

“I am anxious to do something all the time, very little though it may be, to help in some way the men who air fiting the awful battles for me, and for every man and woman in the country.

     “I send these socks now as my latest contribution.  They aint
     much, but I’ve put my best work on them, and I hoap they
     will be useful and comfortable to some good, braiv man.

“How good you may be I doant know, but you air sertingly a much better man than you would be if you was not fiting for the Union.  I hoap you air a régler, consistent Christian.  Ide prefer you to be a Methodist Episcopal, but any church is much better than none.

     “He be glad to heer that you have received these things all
     rite.

     “Sincerely your friend and well-wisher,

     “Jerusha Ellen Briggs.”

Although Shorty was little inclined to any form of reading, and disliked handwriting about as much as he did work on the fortifications, he read the letter over several times, until he had every word in it and every feature of the labored, cramped penmanship thoroughly imprinted on his mind.  Then he held it off at arm’s length for some time, and studied it with growing admiration.  It seemed to him the most wonderful epistle that ever emanated from any human hand.  A faint scent of roses came from it to help the fascination.

“I’ll jest bet my head agin a big red apple,” he soliloquized, “the woman that writ that’s the purtiest girl in the State o’ Wisconsin.  I’ll bet there’s nothin’ in Injianny to hold a candle to her, purty as Si thinks his Annabel is.  And smart-my!  Jest look at that letter.  That tells it.  Every word spelled correckly, and the grammar away up in G. Annabel’s a mighty nice girl, and purty, too, but I’ve noticed she makes mistakes in spelling, and her grammar’s the Wabash kind-home-made.”

He drew down his eyebrows, pursed his lips, and assumed a severely critical look for a reperusal of the letter and judgment upon it according to the highest literary standards.

“No, sir,” he said, with an air of satisfaction, “not a blamed mistake in it, from beginnin’ to end.  Every word spelled jest right, the grammar straight as the Ten Commandments, every t crossed and i dotted accordin’ to regulashuns and the Constitushun of the United States.  She must be a school-teacher, and yit a school-teacher couldn’t knit sich socks as them.  She’s a lady, every inch of her.  Religious, too.  Belongs to the Methodist Church.  Si’s father’s a Baptist, and so’s my folks, but I always did think a heap o’ the Methodists.  I think they have a little nicer girls than the Baptists.  I think I’d like to marry a Methodist wife.”

Then he blushed vividly, all to himself, to think how fast his thoughts had traveled.  He returned to the letter, to cover his confusion.

“Bad Ax, Wis.  What a queer name for a place.  Never heard of it before.  Wonder where in time it is?  I’d like awfully to know.  There’s the 1st and 21st Wis. in Rousseau’s Division, and the 10th Wis.  Battery in Palmer’s Division.  I might go over there and ask some o’ them.  Mebbe some of ’em are right from there.  I’ll bet it’s a mighty nice place.”

He turned to the signature with increased interest.

“Jerusha Ellen Briggs.  Why, the name itself is reg’lar poetry.  Jerusha is awful purty.  Your Mollies and Sallies and Emmies can’t hold a candle to it.  And Annabel-pshaw!  Ellen-why that’s my mother’s name.  Briggs?  I knowed some Briggses once aEuro” way-up, awfully nice people.  Seems to me they wuz Presbyterians, though, and I always thought that Presbyterians wuz stuck-up, but they wuzzent stuck-up a mite.  I wonder if Miss Jerusha Ellen Briggs-she must be a Miss-haint some beau?  But she can’t have.  If he wuzzent in the army she wouldn’t have him; and if he was in the army she’d be sending the socks to him, instead of to whom it may concern.”

This brilliant bit of logic disposed of a sudden fear which had been clutching at his heart.  It tickled him so much that he jumped up, slapped his breast, and grinned delightedly and triumphantly at the whole landscape.

“What’s pleasin’ you so mightily.  Shorty?” asked Si, who had just come up.  “Got a new system for beatin’ chuck-a-luck, or bin promoted?”

“No, nothin’!  Nothin’s happened,” said Shorty curtly, as he hastily shoved the letter into his blouse pocket.  “Will you watch them beans bilin’ while I go down to the spring and git some water?”

He picked up the camp-kettle and started.  He wanted to be utterly alone, even from Si, with his new-born thought.  He did not go directly to the spring, but took another way to a clump of pawpaw bushes, which would hide him from the observation of everyone.  There he sat down, pulled out the letter again, and read it over carefully, word by word.

“Wants me to write whether I got the socks,” he mused.  “You jest bet I will.  I’ve a great mind to ask for a furlough to go up to Wisconsin, and find out Bad Ax.  I wonder how fur it is.  I’ll go over to the Suiter’s and git some paper and envelopes, and write to her this very afternoon.”

He carried his camp-kettle back to the house, set it down, and making some excuse, set off for the Sutler’s shop.

“Le’me see your best paper and envelopes,” he said to the pirate who had license to fleece the volunteers.

“Awfully common trash,” said Shorty, looking over the assortment disdainfully, for he wanted something superlatively fine for his letter.  “Why don’t you git something fit for a gentleman to write to a lady on?  Something with gold edges on the paper and envelopes, and perfumed?  I never write to a lady except on gilt-edged paper, smellin’ o’ bergamot, and musk, and citronella, and them things.  I don’t think it’s good taste.”

“Well, think what you please,” said the Sutler.  “That’s all the kind I have, and that’s all the kind you’ll git.  Take it or leave it.”

Shorty finally selected a quire of heavy letter paper and a bunch of envelopes, both emblazoned with patriotic and warlike designs in brilliant red and blue.

“Better take enough,” he said to himself.  “I’ve been handlin’ a pick and shovel and gun so much that I’m afeared my hand isn’t as light as it used to be, and I’ll have to spile several sheets before I git it just right.”

On his way back he decided to go by the camp of one of the Wisconsin regiments and learn what he could of Bad Ax and its people.

“Is there a town in your State called Bad Ax?” he asked of the first man he met with “Wis.” on his cap.

“Cert’,” was the answer.  “And another one called Milwaukee, one called Madison, and another called Green Bay.  Are you studying primary geography, or just getting up a postoffice directory?”

“Don’t be funny, Skeezics,” said Shorty severely.  “Know anything about it?  Mighty nice place, ain’t it?”

“Know anything about it?  I should say so.  My folks live in Bad Ax County.  It’s the toughest, ornerist little hole in the State.  Run by lead-miners.  More whisky-shanties than dwellings.  It’s tough, I tell you.”

“I believe you’re an infernal liar,” said Shorty, turning away in wrath.

Not being fit for duty, he could devote all his time to the composition of the letter.  He was so wrought up over it that he could not eat much dinner, which alarmed Si.

“What’s the matter with your appetite.  Shorty?” he asked.  “Haint bin eatin’ nothin’ that disagreed with you, have you?

“Naw,” answered Shorty impatiently; “nothin’ wuss’n army rations.  They always disagree with me when I’m layin’ around doin’ nothin’.  Why, in the name of goodness, don’t the army move?  I’ve got sick o’ the sight o’ every cedar and rocky knob in Middle Tennessee.  We ought to go down and take a look at things around Tullahoma, where Mr. Bragg is.”

It was Si’s turn to clean up after dinner, and, making an excuse of going over into another camp to see a man who had arrived there, Shorty, with his paper and envelopes concealed under his blouse, and Si’s pen and wooden ink-stand furtively conveyed to his pocket, picked up the checkerboard when Si’s back was turned, and made his way to the pawpaw thicket, where he could be unseen and unmolested in the greatest literary undertaking of his life.

He took a comfortable seat on a rock, spread the paper on the checkerboard, and then began vigorously chewing the end of the penholder to stimulate his thoughts.

It had been easy to form the determination to write; the desire to do so was irresistible, but never before had he been confronted with a task which seemed so overwhelming.  Compared with it, struggling with a mule-train all day through the mud and rain, working with pick and shovel on the fortifications, charging an enemy’s solid line-of-battle, appeared light and easy performances.  He would have gone at either, on the instant, at the word of command, or without waiting for it, with entire confidence in his ability to master the situation.  But to write a half-dozen lines to a strange girl, whom he had already enthroned as a lovely divinity, had more terrors than all of Bragg’s army could induce.

But when Shorty set that somewhat thick head of his upon the doing of a thing, the thing was tolerably certain to be done in some shape or another.

“I believe, if I knowed whore Bad Ax was, I’d git a furlough, and walk clean there, rather than write a line,” he said, as he wiped from his brow the sweat forced out by the labor of his mind.  “I always did hate writin’.  I’d rather maul rails out of a twisted elm log any day than fill up a copy book.  But it’s got to be done, and the sooner I do it the sooner the agony ’ll be over.  Here goes.”

He began laboriously forming each letter with his lips, and still more laboriously with his stiff fingers, adding one to another, until he had traced out: 

     “Headquarters Co.  Q, 200th Injianny Volunteer Infantry,
     Murfreesboro, Aprile the 16th eighteen hundred & sixty
     three.”

The sweat stood out in beads upon his forehead after this effort, but it was as nothing compared to the strain of deciding how he should address his correspondent.  He wanted to use some term of fervent admiration, but fear deterred him.  He debated the question with himself until his head fairly ached, when he settled upon the inoffensive phrase: 

     “Respected Lady.”

The effort was so exhausting that he had to go down to the spring, take a deep drink of cold water, and bathe his forehead.  But his determination was unabated, and before the sun went down he had produced the following: 

“i talk mi pen in hand 2 inform U that ive reseeved the sox U so kindly cent, & i thank U 1,000 times 4 them.  They are boss sox & no mistake.  They are the bossest sox that ever wuz nit.  The man is a lire who sez they aint.  He dassent tel Me so.  U are a boss nitter.  Even Misses Linkun can’t hold a candle 2 U.

     “The sox fit me 2 a t, but that is becaws they are nit so
     wel, & stretch."

“I wish I knowed some more real strong words to praise her knitting,” said Shorty, reading over the laboriously-written lines.  “But after I have said they’re boss what more is there to say?  I spose I ought to say something about her health next.  That’s polite.”  And he wrote: 

     “ime in fair helth, except my feet are” locoed, & i weigh
     156 pounds, & hope U are injoying the saim blessing.”

“I expect I ought to praise her socks a little more,” said he, and wrote: 

     “The sox are jest boss.  They outrank anything in the Army of
     the Cumberland.”

After this effort he was compelled to take a long rest.  Then he communed with himself: 

“When a man’s writin’ to a lady, and especially an educated lady, he should always throw in a little poetry.  It touches her.”

There was another period of intense thought, and then he wrote: 

“Dan Elliott is my name, & single is my station, Injianny is mi dwelling place, & Christ is mi salvation.”

“Now,” he said triumphantly, “that’s neat and effective.  It tells her a whole lot about me, and makes her think I know Shakspere by heart.  Wonder if I can’t think o’ some more?  Hum-hum.  Yes, here goes: 

     “The rose is red, the vilet’s blue;
     ime 4 the Union, so are U.”

Shorty was so tickled over this happy conceit that he fairly hugged himself, and had to read it over several times to admire its beauty.  But it left him too exhausted for any further mental labor than to close up with: 

     “No moar at present, from yours til death.

     “Dan Elliott,

     “Co.  Q, 200th injianny Volunteer Infantry.”

He folded up the missive, put it into an envelope, carefully directed to Miss Jerusha Ellen Briggs, Bad Ax, Wis., and after depositing it in the box at the Chaplain’s tent, plodded homeward, feeling more tired than after a day’s digging on the fortifications.  Yet his fatigue was illuminated by the shimmering light of a fascinating hope.