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The Power of Reading Insights from the Research 2nd
Edition Insights from the Research Stephen D. Krashen
Digital Instant Download
Author(s): Stephen D. Krashen
ISBN(s): 9781591581697, 1591581699
Edition: 2
File Details: PDF, 1.66 MB
Year: 2004
Language: english
 The
Power of
Reading
 The
Power of
Reading
Insights from the Research

Second Edition

Stephen D. Krashen
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Krashen, Stephen D.
The power of reading: insights from the research/by Stephen D.
Krashen.—2nd ed.
p. cm.
Includes index.
ISBN 978-1-59158-169-7 (hardback) — ISBN 978-0-31305-335-1 (ebook)
1. Books and reading. 2. Literacy. I. Title.
Z1003.K917 2004
028′.9–dc22 2004044207
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data is available.
Copyright © 2004 by Stephen D.Krashen
All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be
reproduced, by any process or technique, without the
express written consent of the publisher.
Library of Congress Cataloging Card Number: 2004044207
ISBN: 978-1-59158-169-7
EISBN: 978-0-31305-335-1
First published in 2004
Libraries Unlimited, 88 Post Road West, Westport, CT 06881
A Member of the Greenwood Publishing Group, Inc.
www.lu.com
Heinemann, 361 Hanover Street, Portsmouth, NH 03801
A division of Reed Elsevier Inc.
www.Heinemann.com
10 9 8 7 6
Contents
Introduction

1. The Research
The Evidence for FVR
In-School Free Reading Programs
Reported Free Voluntary Reading
Reported Free Reading in a Second Language
The Author Recognition Test
Read and Test Studies
Summary
The Alternative to Free Reading: Direct Instruction
The Complexity Argument
Competence without Instruction
The Effect of Instruction
Other Benefits of Reading
The Pleasure of Reading
Reading and Cognitive Development
Good Thinkers Read More
Reading and Writing Apprehension
Conclusion
An Interpretation
Notes

2. The Cure
Access
More Access at Home Results in More Reading
 Better Classroom Libraries Result in More Reading
Better School Libraries Result in More Reading
Access to Public Libraries Results in More Reading
Comfort and Quiet
Libraries
Children Get Their Books from Libraries
Better Libraries Result in Better Reading
Poverty and Access to Books
What About School?
Libraries and Second Language Acquirers
Money for Libraries: Who Is Paying Now?
Reading Aloud
Reading Experience
Home Run Books
Models
Providing Time to Read
Direct Encouragement
Other Factors
Light Reading: Comic Books
A Brief History
Comic Books and Language Development
Comic Texts
Experiments with Comic Book Reading
Comics as a Conduit
The Case for Comics
Light Reading: The Teen Romance
Light Reading: The Power of Magazines
Is Light Reading: Enough?
Do Rewards Work?
What Does the Research Say?
Reading Management Programs
Notes
3. Other Issues and Conclusions
The Limits of Reading
Writing
Writing Style Comes from Reading
More Writing Does Not Mean Better Writing
What Writing Does
The Effect of Television
Does More Television Mean Less Reading?
The Language of Television
Television and Language Development
Television: A Summary
Second Language Acquirers
Conclusions
Notes

References
Researcher Index
Subject Index
Introduction
The sophisticated skills demanded by high-level academic or professional work—the
ability to understand multiple plots or complex issues, a sensitivity to tone, the expertise to
know immediately what is crucial to a text and what can be skimmed—can be acquired only
through years of avid reading. —Mary Leonhardt (1998)

Is There a Literacy Crisis?

I first heard about the literacy crisis in 1987 on the Oprah Winfrey Show
. Oprah Winfrey had four adult “illiterates” as guests, people who, it was
asserted, were completely unable to read and write. Their stories were
touching, and by now, familiar to the reading public. They told how they
had been “passed along” in school, surviving by paying careful attention in
class and relying on friends. They had evolved strategies for getting through
the day; for example, when they went to a restaurant with friends, they
would wait to see what other people were ordering, then order the same
thing.
Soon after this program, the plight of illiterates was dramatized in a
made-for-TV movie starring Dennis Weaver. And soon after that, Stanley
and Iris was released, a film telling the story of an adult illiterate. Thanks to
television shows such as Oprah Winfrey, these films, and numerous articles
in the press and in popular magazines, the public has the impression that a
sizable percentage of the public is completely illiterate, that the public
schools are graduating hordes of young people who can’t read. The public
also has the impression that illiteracy is curable by tutoring sessions that
teach nonreaders to read aloud—in other words, phonics.
 Both impressions are wrong. There is no literacy crisis, at least not the
kind of crisis the media have portrayed. There are, first of all, very few
people who have been through the educational system who are completely
unable to read and write. In fact, literacy, defined simply as the ability to
read and write on a basic level, has been steadily rising in the United States
for the last hun-dred years (see, e.g., Stedman and Kaestle 1987).
There is, however, a problem. Nearly everyone in the United States can
read and write. They just don’t read and write well enough. Although basic
literacy has been on the increase for the last century, the demands for
literacy have been rising faster. Many people clearly don’t read and write
well enough to handle the complex literacy demands of modern society.
The problem is thus not how to bring students to the second- or third-grade
reading level; the problem is how to bring them beyond this.
(It is not clear, by the way, that heavy doses of phonics is the answer
even at the beginning level; for extensive discussion of the most recent
controversies, see Krashen 2002; Garan 2002; Coles 2003).
The cure for this kind of literacy crisis lies, in my opinion, in doing one
activity, an activity that is all too often rare in the lives of many people:
reading. Specifically, I am recommending a certain kind of reading—free
voluntary reading (henceforth FVR). FVR means reading because you want
to. For school-age children, FVR means no book report, no questions at the
end of the chapter, and no looking up every vocabulary word. FVR means
putting down a book you don’t like and choosing another one instead. It is
the kind of reading highly literate people do all the time.
I will not claim that FVR is the complete answer. Free readers are not
guaranteed admission to Harvard Law School. What the research tells me is
that when children or less literate adults start reading for pleasure, however,
good things will happen. Their reading comprehension will improve, and
they will find difficult, academic-style texts easier to read. Their writing
style will improve, and they will be better able to write prose in a style that
is acceptable to schools, business, and the scientific community. Their
vocabulary will improve, and their spelling and control of grammar will
improve.
 In other words, those who do free voluntary reading have a chance. The
research also tells me, however, that those who do not develop the pleasure
reading habit simply don’t have a chance—they will have a very difficult
time reading and writing at a level high enough to deal with the demands of
today’s world.
FVR is also, I am convinced, the way to achieve advanced second
language proficiency. It is one of the best things a second language acquirer
can do to bridge the gap from the beginning level to truly advanced levels
of sec-ond language proficiency.
This book examines the research on FVR, the ways FVR can be imple-
mented, and issues related to reading, writing, and literacy. The possibilities
free voluntary reading offers individuals and society are great. The goal of
this book is to show the reader what free voluntary reading has to offer.
1 The Research
Free voluntary reading (henceforth FVR) means reading because you
want to: no book reports, no questions at the end of the chapter. In FVR,
you don’t have to finish the book if you don’t like it. FVR is the kind of
reading most of us do obsessively all the time.
FVR is one of the most powerful tools we have in language education,
and, as I argue in this chapter, FVR is the missing ingredient in first
language “language arts” as well as intermediate second and foreign
language instruction. It will not, by itself, produce the highest levels of
competence; rather, it provides a foundation so that higher levels of
proficiency may be reached. When FVR is missing, these advanced levels
are extremely difficult to attain.
Free voluntary reading (FVR) is the foundation
of language education.

In the following section, the evidence for the efficacy of FVR is briefly
reviewed. Following this review, I argue that alternative means of
promoting language and literacy development are not nearly as effective.

The Evidence for FVR

In-School Free Reading Programs

In-school free reading programs provide some of the clearest evidence
for the power of reading. In these programs, part of the school day is set
aside for unrestricted FVR. There are three kinds of in-school free reading
programs: sustained silent reading, self-selected reading, and extensive
reading. In sustained silent reading, both teachers and students engage in
free reading for short periods each day (from five to 15 minutes; see
Pilgreen 2000). In self-selected reading, free reading is a large part of the
language arts program, with teachers holding conferences with students to
discuss what was read. In extensive reading, a minimal amount of
accountability is required, for example, a short summary of what was read.
Types of in-school FVR: sustained silent
reading, self-selected reading, extensive reading.

Table 1.1:
Results of Reading Comprehension Tests: In-School Free
Reading Compared to Traditional Approaches

Table 1.1 summarizes the impact of in-school free reading programs on

tests of reading comprehension. In each case, readers were compared to
students in traditional programs. These were programs that emphasized
assigned reading and direct instruction in grammar, vocabulary, reading
comprehension, and spelling.
Two findings clearly emerge from this table: First, in-school free
reading programs are consistently effective. In 51 out of 54 comparisons
(94 percent), readers do as well as or better than students who were engaged
in traditional programs.
Note that a finding of “no difference” between free readers and students
in traditional programs suggests that free reading is just as good as tradi-
tional instruction, which confirms that free reading results in literacy
growth, an important theoretical point we return to later. As we will see
later, there is also strong evidence that free reading is extremely pleasant
and results in superior general knowledge. Even if free reading were
equivalent to direct instruction in terms of literacy development, it should
therefore be the preferred option.
 In 51 out of 54 comparisons, students using
FVR did as well as or better on reading tests than
students given traditional skill-based reading
instruction.

Second, studies that last longer show more consistently positive results.
One reason for this finding is apparent to teachers who have used free
reading in their classrooms: It takes a while for students to select a book.
Table 1.1 suggests that programs that last longer than a year are consistently
effective. 1
The longer FVR is done, the more consistent the
results.

In-school free reading programs are also effective for vocabulary

development, grammar test performance, writing, and oral/aural language
ability (Greaney 1970; Krashen 1989).
Only a few in-school reading studies have measured gains in spelling.
Of these, Pfau (1967) reported no additional gains in spelling due to
supplementary free reading, but Collins (1980) and Hafiz and Tudor (1990)
found that those who participated in sustained silent reading made better
progress in spelling than those who were in a traditional instruction
program. Elley (1991) reports a split-decision: In one group, those who did
in-school free reading made better progress in spelling than traditionally
taught students, but in another comparison with different students, there was
no difference. In no case, however, did traditionally taught students do
better. 2
Some examples illustrate the findings of in-school free reading. Much
of the research summarized in table 1.1 was performed on first lan-guage
acquirers in elementary school in the United States. The results of the
following studies show that free reading is very effective with other groups
as well.
McNeil, in Fader (1976), examined the effects of a free reading program
on 60 reform school boys, ages 12–17. The boys were encouraged to read
newspapers, magazines, and softcover books, and the reading material was
the basis for classroom discussions. After one year, the readers increased
their reading comprehension scores (Scholastic Achievement Test) from
69.9 to 82.7 (a gain of 12.8), while comparisons only improved from 55.8
to 60.4 (a gain of 4.6).
Reform-school boys benefited from FVR.

Elley and Mangubhai (1983) showed that free reading has a dramatic
effect on second language acquirers. In their study, fourth- and fifth-grade
students of English as a foreign language were divided into three groups for
their 30-minute daily English class. One group had traditional audio-lingual
method instruction, a second did only free reading, while a third did “shared
reading,” Shared reading “is a method of sharing a good book with a class,
several times, in such a way that the students are read to by the teacher, as
in a bedtime story. They then talk about the book, they read it together, they
act out the story, they draw parts of it and write their own caption, they
rewrite the story with different characters or events” (Elley 1998, pp. 1–2).
After two years, the free reading group and the shared reading group were
far superior to the traditional group in tests of reading comprehension,
writing, and grammar.
Children studying English in Fiji benefited from
FVR.

Elley (1991) also showed that free reading had a profound effect on
second language acquirers in Singapore. In three studies involving a total of
ap-proximately 3,000 children, ages six though nine, and lasting from one
to three years, children who followed the “Reading and English Acquisition
Program,” a combination of shared book experience, language experience,
and free reading (“book flood”), outperformed traditionally taught students
on tests of reading comprehension, vocabulary, oral language, grammar,
listening comprehension, and writing. 3
Children studying English in Singapore
benefited from FVR

Elley’s more recent data (Elley 1998) come from South Africa and Sri
Lanka. In all cases, children who were encouraged to read for pleasure
outperformed traditionally taught students on standardized tests of reading
comprehension and other measures of literacy. Table 1.2 presents the data
from South Africa. In this study, EFL students who lived in print-poor
environments were given access to sets of 60 high-interest books, which
were placed in classrooms, with another 60 made available in sets of six
identical titles. The books were used for read-alouds by the teacher, shared
reading, and silent reading. Table 1.2 presents data from different
provinces; in every case the readers outperformed those in comparison
classes, and the gap widened with each year of reading.

Table 1.2
In-School Reading in South Africa

Source : Mason and Krashen (1997)

Beniko Mason’s studies show that in-school extensive reading works

very well for older students studying English as a foreign language. In
Mason’s first study (included in Mason and Krashen 1997), experimental
students were taking a required English as a foreign language class at the
college level in Japan. It was, however, a special class, consisting
exclusively of students who had previously failed English (termed Sai
Rishu, or retakers). Students were pre- and posttested with a cloze test,
which required them to fill in missing words in an English text. For one
semester, students in the experimental class read graded readers, both in
class and as homework. There was some “accountability” in these classes,
but it was minimal: Students had to write short synopses and keep a diary in
Japanese, recording their feelings, opinions, and progress. Students in the
comparison classes followed the traditional grammar and translation-based
curriculum.
Reluctant English students in Japan benefited
from FVR.
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 BROWNING.
This morning, as I opened the door of the ladies’ room at the
hospital, I found M., as usual, before me at her post busily working.
She greeted me with “Mr. —— (our chaplain) has just been in, to say
that Browning is to be baptized this morning, and he would like us to
be present; so we shall have to be prompt with our work.”
This Browning was a striking instance of the mercy and long-
suffering of our dear Lord and Master. After a wholly irreligious life,
he had entered the army, (though quite advanced in years,) at the
breaking out of the rebellion, where, instead of being struck down
by a bullet, a long and suffering illness in the hospital had been
graciously granted to him; it had borne its fruit, and this day, the
brow furrowed by sin, and the hair whitened in the service of
another master, are to be moistened by baptismal waters.
He has been perfectly blind for many days, and is evidently
sinking. At the appointed hour we gather around his bed, the
Chaplain, the Surgeon in charge, (whose presence and interest in
the occasion impress the men far more than he imagines,) M., and
myself. The holy words are pronounced, and he is enlisted as
“Christ’s faithful soldier and servant unto his life’s end;” that end,
which, alas! seems so very near. As we approach to speak to him, he
looks up, no longer with the blank, vacant gaze of sightless eyes,
which he has worn for so many days, but with a bright smile of
recognition, saying, in a tone almost of surprise, “Friends, dear
friends, God has given me light.” I thought he alluded to the light
which had just dawned upon his spirit, but not so; it seemed as
though the inward illumination had indeed extended to his physical
frame; sight was restored to the darkened eye of the body also, and
mercifully continued during the few remaining days of his life. To the
many, this fact will appear a strange coincidence; to the few,
something more.
Scarcely has the closing prayer ascended; scarcely have we turned
to leave the bedside, when there is a bustle—an excitement—a
sudden stir. “A man dying in the third ward; come quickly, come,
won’t you?”
We hasten to the spot, and to our surprise find that the Angel of
Death is before us. A man, whom we had been watching for some
time, ill with that terrible scourge—the Chickahominy fever—and
whom we had left not half an hour since, apparently in no danger,
by some strange change is suddenly and certainly dying. His sister,
who has been watching him, night and day, had left him to prepare
some drink for him; in her absence he had attempted to rise from
his pillow; the effort was too much, and he had, as she imagined,
fainted.
But to any eye, whose sad lot it has been to watch that dark, cold,
grey shadow, once seen, never forgotten, marvellous in its mystery,
strange in its stern solemnity, as it slowly settles on some loved face;
to any ear, that has listened to those long, convulsive breaths, with
their longer and more dreadful intervals, it could not but be evident
that this was no fainting, but the terrible sundering of soul and body.
Man’s hand here was powerless. In answer to the sister’s agonized
appeal to the surgeon, brandy is offered, but in vain; and we stand
silently and sadly waiting till the dread struggle shall be ended. And
still we stand, and still we wait. It seems as though something held
and chained the soul to earth; it cannot part—it cannot burst its
earthly case.
One by that bed whispers to the chaplain—
“The Last Prayer.”
We kneel once more, and once more the wonderful words of the
Prayer-book speak for us in our hour of need. It is enough. The cord
is broken—the chain is loosed; the soul seems to rise upon the
wings of those solemn words; for ere they are done, a broken-
hearted sister feels that she is alone.
It is not desirable to enter upon any description of the sorrowful
scene of excited and undisciplined grief which followed; three hours
afterwards, we succeeded in inducing her to take an anodyne and
go to bed. Character, mental training, and spiritual attainment, are
never more clearly shown than in the manner in which a great
sorrow is borne; much, of course, depends upon temperament, but
as a rule, I think we may safely affirm, that the most violent outward
expression has the least inward root; that the griefs which crush and
slowly sap life, are seldom noisily and vehemently vented in their
first freshness.
That night, as I sat where the soft shadows of summer moonlight
played peacefully in and out among grand old trees, my thoughts
naturally clung to the scenes through which I had been passing, and
dwelt upon those two who had both, though so differently, that day
“entered into Life;” the one, through the Golden Gate of Baptism;
the other, through “the grave and gate of death;” and in the
calmness of that still night, the fervent wish arose, that they might
both attain a “joyful resurrection, for His merits, Who died, and was
buried, and rose again for us.”
 THE TWO ANGELS.

U. S. A. Hospital, August, 1862.

’Tis a hospital ward, and the sun’s cheerful rays

Light up many a bed of pain,
As the sufferers, seeking so sadly for ease,
Turn wearily once and again.

A small group is gathered round one of the beds,

Come with me, and stand by its side,
Whilst the voice of the Priest softly sounds on the air
As he pours the Baptismal tide.

By pillows supported, in sore strife for breath,

See one enter that Army within;
Whose Captain accepts all the maim’d and the halt,
Whose service is no worth to Him.

O, wonderful Mercy, unspeakable Love!

Who gave all His best for our sake;
The few faded fragments and dregs of lost life,
When offered, at latest, will take.

Holy words are pronounced, and his brow with wet Cross,
Is sparkling with strange, wondrous light;
Whence comes It? We see by that awe-stricken face
That no longer, as erst, is it night.

There are moments in life, when, from earthly thoughts freed,

To our sight purer vision is given;
Can we doubt that bright Presence—the Angel of Life—
As It floats thro’ the air, is from Heaven?

White Wings are extended—no poet’s mere dream—

But truly protecting that head;
And the Peace passing earth settles soft on our souls
And the Peace, passing earth, settles soft on our souls,
As we kneel by that hospital bed.

A bustle, a noise and a crowd, and a stir!

Some one’s dying! oh! come quickly, come!
We hasten, but Man may not stay that Dread Hand,
With its summons so swift to his Home.

The Angel of Death hovers close o’er the bed;

The shadow falls dark on the face;
And a chill and a hush rests on everything round,
Each man standing still in his place.

Yet still the soul lingers, earth bound, as it seems,

Till a voice whispers low, “The Last Prayer;”
And those words—those grand words of our Mother, The Church
—
Rise clearly and calm on the air.

It seems as they rise, to Faith’s eye, thro’ the space

A path for the soul they have cleft;
For we know, ere Amen’s last vibration is done,
With the body alone we are left.

In the wards of Life’s Hospital, thus are the threads,

Of Death and of Life intertwined;
Grant, Lord, in our hour of need, that our souls
Such vision of Angels may find!
 BROWN.

“Alas, long-suffering and most patient God,

Thou need’st be surelier God to bear with us,
Than even to have made us!”

“How you can endure that man, is a mystery to me,” said M., to
me one morning, as, in going through the wards, I paused at the
bedside of one of the men, whose unattractive, even repulsive
countenance fully justified the feeling. I did not answer what was
the truth, “I cannot endure him,” for I had resolved on testing to the
uttermost, my theory, most firmly held, that there is some good in
every one—some key to the heart—some avenue by which the soul
may be reached—some smouldering spark of good in darkest depths
of evil; and more than this, we were not there to choose interesting
cases, but to minister to all. Truly there was little room here for the
romantic interest with which we are charged with investing our men.
Originally of very low origin, bad habits, probably increased by the
exposure of camp life, had sunk him lower; and I confess to a
feeling of shame at the unconquerable disgust with which I
approached him; but he was sick and suffering, and I tried to fix my
mind upon the fact, rather than upon the cause which had produced
it.
Several months of visiting, however, proved one point, that he
certainly had a heart; further than this, I could not ascertain, even
after many trials, until one morning he turned to me, suddenly, and
said, pointing to the wall opposite his bed, “We have a light all night;
I can’t sleep, and I’m all the time reading that.” I looked, and read
the text in large letters, “There is more joy in heaven, over one
sinner that repenteth,” &c. “Do you think there could ever be joy
over me?” The utter depression of the look, the hopelessness of the
tone, and the mournful shake of the head, were touching in the
extreme.
He seemed to long to do better, and promised earnestly to seek
for strength to avoid temptation. A few weeks elapsed, and on my
return, the answer to “Where is Brown?” was, “In the guard-house;
he got better, got a pass, and, of course, came home drunk.”
A severe illness followed; this occurred again and again; the
necessity for air and exercise gained him occasionally a pass from
the surgeons, always followed by the same sad result. The men
despised him, treated him accordingly, and his case seemed
hopeless. One day, one of our poor men, who was in a dying
condition, fancied a piece of fresh shad—it was one of those sick
longings, which, of course, we were anxious to gratify. Permission
gained to send for it, I turned to one of the men at my side, and
said, “Will you go to the market and get it for him?” Brown, who was
standing near, sprang eagerly forward, “Oh! do let me go for you; I
won’t be a minute, and the doctor said a walk would be good for
me.” The sad doubt in my mind must have written itself upon my
face, for its effect was reflected by the deep pain and wounded
expression in his own. My resolution was taken instantly, and I
resolved to risk it. Holding the money to him, I said, “Take it, then,
and come back quickly.” The blood rushed to his face, and the
beaming look of gratitude made me sure that this was the best
mode of treating him. Men are too often just what they are assumed
to be; treat them as men of honor, such they will be; treat them as
knaves, such also they will be. I mean not to affirm that there is no
such thing as abstract truth or principle; far from it; but I do mean
to say, that where the moral sense is weak, far more is gained by
treating men as though we trusted, than as though we doubted. It is
the unconscious tribute paid, all the world over, to honor and virtue.
They would fain be or appear to be, all that we think them; and who
can tell how far we may aid a sinking soul by the kind word of
hopeful trust; or, on the other hand, by assuming a man to be
utterly degraded, help to make him become so, in reality?
 And yet, scarcely had Brown left my sight, ere the doubt returned.
He had been doing better lately. I had thrown him into temptation;
would he have strength to avoid it? Visions of illness, disgrace,
suffering, and the guard-house, filled my mind. These thoughts were
not dissipated by M.’s sudden question,
“Who did you send for that fish? How long he stays!”
With something of a pang of conscience, although quite aware
that I had acted from the best motives, I said, courageously,
“I sent Brown; it is not so very long.”
“Brown! Oh! how could you? You know what will happen?”
As I rely upon her judgment more than my own, my anxiety is not
relieved, though concealed. The minutes grow to hours, and still no
tidings of him. Another trial; the wardmaster appears.
“G—— wants to know if you’ve got his fish? you promised to send
at once.”
“Not yet,” I said, “but I hope I shall very soon.”
A very faint hope, it must be confessed. As he left the ladies’
room, I heard one of the men say to him,
“G——’ll get no fish to-day. Do you know who she sent? Brown, if
you’ll believe it.”
A prolonged whistle. “Didn’t she know?”
“She might have, by this time, one would think.”
Heart sick, I turned away; my theory of trust henceforth must
have exceptions. I had led another into sin, and he must suffer for
my fault. Just at this instant Brown rushes in, flushed and heated, it
is true, but with exercise alone,—that was quite plain—and handing
me the money, pants out,
“I’ve been clean to the wharf, and couldn’t get a bit; I determined
you should have it, and I’ve been through every market I knowed
on, but not a blessed scrap could I find.”
 “How glad I am!” broke involuntarily from my lips; and I was only
recalled to the inappropriateness of the reply, by his look of puzzled
wonder, and “What was it you said, miss?”
“Nothing,” I answered; “thank you for the trouble you have
taken;” and he left me, much mystified by my evident delight at the
failure of his errand.
The truth of his statement was verified by a lady, who (her
carriage at the door) offered to see if she could be more successful.
She returned, some time afterwards, bringing some other fish, and
assuring me that it was quite impossible to procure any shad that
day, at any price, as there was none in the market.

“They tell me, that I should not love

Where I cannot esteem;
But do not fear them, for to me
False wisdom doth it seem.

“Nay,—rather I should love thee more

The farther thou dost rove;
For what Prayers are effectual,
If not the Prayers of Love?”
 DARLINGTON.
“I pity our sick men, to-day,” thought I, as I gladly took shelter
within the hospital walls from the burning summer sun, which was
beating with unusual violence upon the hot brick pavements and
dusty streets. The city in summer, and “Dante’s Inferno,” always
seem to me synonymous terms. It is on days like these, when the
town seems so close and crowded, the heated air so heavy and
impure, that I long to have the hospitals or their occupants all
moved to the calm, cool country, where the poor sufferer may be
beguiled from the thought of his pain by the sweet sights and
sounds ever around him; that blessed blue, which no town sky can
ever attain, let it try its best, broken by fair, floating masses of white
clouds, their forms ever varying, yet each seeming more beautiful
than the last; the glad, grateful green of woods and dells, which, like
a loved presence, ever unconsciously soothes and satisfies; the soft,
springing wild flowers, with their sweet, sunny smile,—these for the
eye; while for the ear, listen to the cheerful chime with which that
little babbling brook plays its accompaniment in “little sharps and
trebles” to the chorus of voices overhead; no discord there—not one
false note to jar the unstrung nerve, but all pure, perfect harmony.
Is there no medicine in all this? Rather, is it not worth, for
purposes of cure, all, and more than all that the whole Materia
Medica can offer? And yet there are men living on this earth who tell
you, aye, even as though they were in earnest in the assertion, too,
that they do not love the country—they prefer a city life. For such, I
can only hope that retributive justice may bestow upon them a
summer’s campaign in one of our city hospitals.
“Have you seen our new lot of wounded?”
“No. When did they come in? Any serious cases?”
 “Only a few days ago. Yes, ma’am, some pretty bad wounds;
worse than we’ve had yet—two of them can hardly live; but take
care of one of them, when you go in; he’s as cross as thunder, if you
go within a mile of his bed.”
This from one of the orderlies of the first ward, as my hand was
upon the latch of the door. I confess the announcement was
somewhat alarming, as we could then be but a few rods from his
bed; however, “forewarned, forearmed.” I enter, and find the scene
little different from usual, save that the vacant beds are all filled, and
a few more have been added to the number, as they evidently stand
much closer than they do ordinarily. I pass on to the familiar faces,
and after a greeting with them, my attention is attracted by a bright,
cheerful tune, whistled in a voice of uncommon sweetness. It comes
from that bed where that poor arm is bandaged from shoulder to
finger tip, and, right glad am I to hear it; the men who are cheerful,
are, as a rule, always the first to recover. He stops as I come up.
“I am glad you can whistle; it shows you are not suffering so
much as I feared, when I saw your bandages.”
He smiles, but says nothing; and I notice, as I come closer, that
large drops of perspiration are standing in beads upon his brow; his
one free hand is tightly clenched, and a nervous tremor runs over
his whole frame.
One of my friends in a neighboring bed says, “Ah, Miss ——, you
don’t know Robinson yet, he’s a new fellow, and we all laugh at him
here; he says when the pain’s just so bad he can’t bear it nohow, he
tries to whistle with all his might, and he finds it does him good.”
Whether from the suspension of this novel remedy for acute
suffering, or a sudden increase of pain, I cannot tell; but as I turn to
Robinson for a confirmation of this singular statement, the large
tears are in his eyes, and roll slowly down his cheeks. He tries to
smile, however, and says, “Oh, yes! it does help me wonderfully; it
kind of makes me forget the pain, and think I’m at home again,
where I’m always whistling. Nothing like keeping up a good heart. It
don’t always ache like this—only in spells—it’ll stop after a bit. Never
mind me, ma’am, I’m not half so bad as poor Darlington there.”
There seemed to me something touching in the extreme, in this
earnest effort to subdue suffering by whistling up the bright
memories of home, in the midst of such intense physical anguish,
and in the endeavor to treat his own case as lightly as possible. Well
has it been said, “Character is seen through small openings;” and as
he appeared in this conversation, such did we find him always.
Gentle, unselfish, and bearing his terrible suffering with a beautiful
patience, ere long he became a general favorite throughout the
whole hospital; and during the tedious months of close and constant
nursing which his case required, every one seemed glad to help him
and wait upon him at all times. But this is anticipating, for no doubt
he will appear again, as for a long time he was one of our prime
objects of interest, from the constant attention as to diet and
delicacies which his case required.
As I pass on from bed to bed, I give rather a scrutinizing glance,
in hopes of just seeing the formidable object whom I had been
warned to avoid. But in vain. All seem quiet, and since my presence
has stopped the whistling, nothing is heard but the men talking in an
undertone, or an occasional low moan of pain, which seems to come
from some one asleep and suffering. Suddenly, in my tour, I pause
before a bed, struck by the expression of intense anguish on a
sweet, young face, white as the pillow it rests upon; his fair hair
tossed from the pale brow, which is painfully contracted, and his
long, thin, taper fingers, white as the face, move convulsively as he
sleeps. He is evidently badly wounded, for a hoop raises the clothes
from his bandaged limb. Who can he be? Evidently those hands,
even allowing for illness and loss of blood, have never seen rough
service, and belong to some one of a higher class than we usually
see as a Private here; for although we proudly acknowledge that
some of the best blood of the country is now in the ranks, still it has
not, as yet, been our good fortune to encounter its presence in this
hospital. There is a sort of fascination about that face, and I stand
gazing at him and wondering over him till Richards, one of our old
attachés, comes up.
“Oh! he’s asleep, poor fellow, at last; that accounts for it; the boys
are all wondering how you got so close; he’s in a great way, when
he’s awake. He couldn’t bear you that near without screaming.”
“Surely this can’t be the man Foster said was ‘as cross as
thunder?’” said I, thinking it utterly impossible that here was indeed
the dreaded object I had been seeking.
“Well, yes, miss; the boys call him cross, but somehow I don’t
think he means to be cross; only, you see he suffers so with that
mashed-up limb, that he’s afraid they’ll touch him when they come
near, and he calls out sudden like, and so they call him cross; but
he’s as grateful as can be, for any little thing you do for him.”
“Is he very badly wounded?”
“Oh! yes. The doctors would have taken his leg right off, but they
say he’s too weak to stand it; you never saw such a sight; he and
Robinson, there, are an awful pair to look at.”
“Is this Darlington? I heard Robinson say that Darlington was
worse than he was.”
“Yes, ma’am; the doctor says he’s not worse, only they take it
different. You see, poor Tom here, frets all the time, and don’t give
himself no chance; but that fellow over there’ll worry through yet, if
pluck can do it.”
This was afterwards confirmed by the surgeon himself. He assured
me that Robinson’s wound had appeared quite as dangerous—
indeed, at one time, even more so; but his quiet, placid disposition
aided his recovery immensely; while the terribly nervous
temperament, and high state of nervous irritability of poor
Darlington, were equally against him.
“I’m glad enough he’s sleeping,” added Richards, “for he’s been
here for three days, and this is the first time, night or day, that I’ve
caught him with his eyes shut; lots of anodyne, too, the doctors give
him. It’s worry, worry, worry from morning to night about his sister;
he wants so to see her, and says if she were only here, she could
come near his bed and it wouldn’t hurt him.”
“Where does she live? Why don’t they send for her? he can’t live.”
“Away off in Michigan; and he won’t even have her told that he’s
sick; he says wait till he’s better, and then he’ll write; but he won’t
have her frightened. If he could only forget her for a little while, it’s
my notion he’d do better; but I tell him none of the boys here make
half the fuss after their wives that he does after his sister. Poor boy!
he’s just twenty-one since he came in here, and I rather guess they
must have thought a sight of him at home,—at least, he does of
them,—too much for his own good, that’s certain; this terrible
fretting after home, when they’re sick, does the boys a lot of harm.”
Knowing that Richards’ one talent was garrulity, I left him and
went to our room, thinking that perhaps we might prepare
something to tempt poor Darlington’s appetite; for the surgeon told
us it was vital to keep up his strength, and yet he could scarcely be
persuaded to touch anything which had been brought him.
As I well knew, from the state they described him to be in, that
the sight of a stranger could not be agreeable to him, we sent
everything we made for him through Richards, who constituted
himself his body-guard from the moment of his entering the hospital,
and a most faithful and untiring nurse he proved. Never again can I
say that garrulity is his only talent; he developed then and there a
gift for nursing for which those who best loved Darlington can never
be too grateful. Days passed on, and I soon found that (as I had
supposed) what the men termed “crossness,” was but the sad
querulousness produced by suffering, and the state of which I have
spoken.
While Robinson evidently gained,—though his attacks of pain were
still marked by his own peculiar whistling, which we constantly heard
in the ladies’ room, and always knew how to interpret,—Darlington
was as evidently losing; and all hopes of amputation were
necessarily abandoned. I could feel nothing but the most intense
pity for him, and longing to comfort him; but it seemed impossible.
M. said to me one day, “It certainly seems best, from what we see
and hear of Darlington, to send, not take, his nourishment to him;
and yet, perhaps our presence might be more welcome; but I
hesitate, because the sight of any one coming near him seems to
throw him into such a nervous state.”
“Yes,” said I, “any one but Richards; doesn’t it seem a strange
fancy?”
And so we went on, for a week or more longer; for our interest in
the case was so great, that even when not on duty at the hospital,
we felt that we must know its progress. One day the surgeon came
to me and begged me to try to cheer up Darlington, he was so
down-hearted, would taste no food, etc.; must certainly sink unless
some change could be made in his feelings. I went to his bedside at
once, to see if he were awake, for much of the time he was kept
under the effect of anodyne, to deaden the excessive pain. For many
a long day did that look of deep, profound wretchedness haunt me,
as he raised his soft, clear blue eyes to mine, and said, in the most
earnest, pleading tone, “Dear lady, please to go away, I am so very
wretched.” Any one who had ever suffered realized that there was
no crossness here; physical suffering, acute and intense, was written
in every line of his face, sounded in every tone of his voice, and
most earnestly did I long to soothe him.
Without answering, I drew back, and laid my cold hands on his
burning brow. His whole expression changed. “You like it,” I said; “I
am so glad; we have all been wishing so much to do something to
comfort you.”
A sweet smile, more touching than tears, passed over the poor
white face, followed the next moment by the painful contraction of
the muscles from suffering.
“But I want her!”
 “Ah!” said I, “that sister! No one can take her place; we will write,
and she can soon be here; she would come further than from
Michigan, I am sure, to see a sick brother who loves her as you do.”
With more energy than I had ever seen in him, he lifted his head
from the pillow, saying eagerly, “Never, never write to her; I wouldn’t
have her see me so for all——”
But here, either from the effort, or from a sudden increase of pain,
faintness came on; strong stimulants and the doctor’s presence were
needed, and I left him. This, I trusted, however, might be a
beginning.
The next day, when I came to him, he looked much sunken, and
seemed altogether lower than I had yet seen him. He smiled,
however, and tried to lift his hand, and point to his head.
“You like my cold hands,” said I, as I once more pressed them on
his throbbing temples; “but perhaps this hot day, a little ice would be
better; let me get you some.”
He said something which I could not catch; his voice sounded
strangely weak and broken, and I was obliged to ask him to repeat
it.
“No! oh no! I said your hands were better than any ice.”
“They put you in mind of that sister, is that it? Well, shut your eyes
now, and try to fancy, just for a little while, that they are really hers,
and that she is standing in my place, where I know she would so
long to be.”
“That sister,” he said, quietly and gently, “whom I shall never see
on this earth again.”
This was the first time that he had so spoken; always before he
had alluded to being better—to getting home—to writing himself to
her; but now it seemed he felt and realized his state.
These were the last words I ever heard poor Darlington speak, for
I never saw him again. My week at the hospital was over; I was
obliged to leave home for a short time, and when I returned he was
at peace, and calmly laid to rest.

“Out of the darkness, into the light:

No more sickness, no more sighing;
No more suffering, self-denying;
No more weakness, no more pain;
Never a weary soul again;
No more clouds, and no more night;—
Out of the darkness into the light.”

Although I was not present, I had the most touching account of

his last hours from one who, in truth, acted a sister’s part,—watched
by him, comforted, consoled, pointed him upward, and received his
latest breath. With her own hands she cut off a lock of that fair hair
for the poor sister, so fondly and so truly loved in her far-away
home.
She told me, in speaking of the last days of his life, that after I
had left, and as death drew near, all that restlessness and irritability
passed away, and that he lay calm and peaceful as a little child;
talked to her quietly—sent messages to his home—gave particular
directions as to his funeral—saying that it would satisfy them all at
home, to know everything had been carefully attended to, and that
they would see that it was all paid for. Every wish was carried out;
his body was wrapped in the Flag; our own grand Service for the
Dead said over him; his faithful nurse, “Uncle Richards,” following
him to his grave,—in one of the lots generously given by one of the
cemeteries in the neighborhood of the city. It was a great comfort to
know that he looked at Death without fear; his mind had evidently
been dwelling much and deeply upon the subject, during many of
those long hours when we had supposed him to be in a stupor. He
expressed a sure and steadfast trust in the merits of his dear Lord
and Saviour, and rested with a quiet confidence upon His mercy. He
passed away calmly and gently, and we have perfect trust that he
sleeps in Paradise. Such was the account I received on my return.

“And, comforted, I praised the grace

Which him had led to be
An early seeker of That Face
Which he should early see.”

Perhaps the most pathetic part of the whole thing, was to see the
deep, real, unostentatious grief of poor Richards, who seemed as if
he had lost a son. This was a strange case altogether. Richards was
a man who had been in the English army; tall, fine-looking, with a
military air and bearing, which had impressed me much when he
first came to the hospital; but I soon found that his habits were bad,
and that any permission to go out was sure to be followed by a night
in the guard-house, and days in bed. And yet a kinder heart could
scarcely be found. He had devoted himself to more than one of the
men, and watched them night after night till their death. In one
instance, when one man whom he had been nursing was to be
taken home, here in the city, he obtained permission to go with him
and nurse him, sitting up with him and watching him till his death.
As at such times he always remained perfectly sober, it was
suggested to make him nurse, (his disease rendering a return to his
regiment impossible,) with the hope that the good influence over
him which this work seemed to possess, might be permanent; but
this would not do; he could not be trusted unless he had a special
interest in the man he was nursing, and what was necessary to
create such interest he alone knew. Whatever the qualities were,
Darlington possessed them in the highest degree. He seemed to
attract him from the first, and the love was warmly returned.
Darlington thought no one could move him, no one could feed him,
no one could dress his wound but “Uncle Richards, dear Uncle
Richards,” as he called him; and often have I wondered at the
tender love which seemed to exist between them. Those who were
present told me that it was truly wonderful to watch Richards all
through that last day, kneeling at his bedside, praying with him,
repeating text after text of Scripture or hymns, as he asked for
them. One of the last things Darlington said was, “Where is dear
Uncle Richards? I want to put my arms round his neck, and thank
him for all his goodness and kindness to me.”
And yet this is the man of whom some one said to me, only a day
or two since, “Why do you speak to that worthless fellow?”
One day, in my next week at the hospital, Richards came to me,
and with the usual salute, which he never forgets, said, “Miss ——,
you used to care for poor Tom, would you let me tell you about him?
The world seems so lonely to me, now he’s gone.”
I gladly assented, and seated on an old packing-box, in the corner
of the hospital entry, I listened to his story. He gave me every detail
of his illness, most of them already familiar to me; told, with evident
pride, how the poor fellow thought nobody but himself could do
anything for him.
“You mind, miss, don’t you, how the first day you saw him, I told
you he didn’t mean to be cross, though the boys thought him so?
Well, he told me before he died, how sorry he was they had thought
so, but they could never know what agony it was to him to see them
come near him; but now he felt that he ought to have tried to bear
it all more patiently. Poor Tom! there’s not been many like him here,
and there’ll never be any like him to me,” and hard, heavy sobs
shook his whole frame.
I spoke to him of the comfort he had been to him; of the kind way
in which he had watched him, and how we had all noticed it; and
won a promise from him, in his softened state, that henceforward he
would try so to live as to meet him hereafter; and I really believe
that at the time he was sincere; but habit is a fearful thing, and the
struggle against a sin so confirmed more fearful still.
Some days afterwards, he came to me, when there were others
present, and said:
 “I had a letter from her to-day.”
My thoughts were far enough from Darlington at the moment, and
I answered,
“From whom?”
“From her, you know!”
“And who do you mean by ‘her?’”
“His sister, to be sure,” he said, in an injured tone, as though I
should have known that, at present, there was but one subject for
him.
“Oh, have you? What does she say?”
“Not now, not now,” he said, looking at the others, as though the
grief were too fresh, the subject too sacred, to be mentioned so
publicly; “but I just thought you’d like to know.”
At a quiet moment, the next day, he begged me to let him tell me
what she had written;—her warm, earnest thanks to him for all his
love and tenderness to her darling brother; and begging him to plant
some flowers where he was laid to rest. This may never be in his
power, but there are those who will never forget to care for and
cherish the low grave of that young Private.
 Military Hospital, July, 1862.

What matters it, one more, or less?

A Private died to-day;
“Bring up a stretcher—bear him off—
And take that bed away;
Put 39 into his place,
It is more airy there;
And give his knapsack, and those clothes,
Into the steward’s care.”

So, it is over. All is done!

And, ere the evening guard,
Few thought of the Dread Presence
That day within the ward.—
Few thought of the young Private,
Whose suffering, pallid brow
Was knit by torture, not by time,—
Unfurrow’d by Life’s plough.

Few thought upon the agony

In that far western home,
Where he, their hearts’ best treasure,
Was never more to come;
For Privates have both hearts and homes,
And Privates, too, can love;
And Privates’ prayers, thank God for that!
May reach the Throne above.

We know thee not, sad sister!

Whose name so oft he breathed,
Till it would seem that thoughts of thee
Round his whole being wreathed;
But by the love he bore for thee,
We catch a glimpse of thine;
And, by the bond of sisterhood,
 d, by t e bo d o s ste ood,
We meet beside his shrine.

We meet to tell thee, stricken soul!

That strangers held thy place—
Sisters by Nature’s right, and he,
Brother, by right of race.
While pillow’d tenderly his head,
Cooled was his burning brain
By loving hands; and one fair curl,
Severed for thee, sweet pain!

If comfort be not mockery

In such a harrowing hour,
O, find it in his cherishing,
And let the thought have power;
Thy brain must turn, or so thou deem’st,
He, needing love and care,
Knowing ’twas granted, thou canst kneel
And ask for strength to bear.

O men, his brothers, bear in mind,

For all, our dear Lord died!
Souls own but one Commission—
Love of The Crucified!
Right gallant are the Officers—
Men, noble, brave, and true;
But when you breathe a Prayer for them,
Say one for Privates too.
 “LITTLE CORNING.”
Let no one imagine that hospital life is all gloom. Sickness and
suffering are, of course, the normal condition, but we try to crowd in
all the brightness we can; games, gayety, and gladness, have their
place. One such presence as that of “Little Corning” must insure
some sunshine. How can I describe that quaint, droll, merry little
sergeant, once seen, never to be forgotten?
“Little Corning,” we always called him, to distinguish him from our
tall wardmaster of the same name; and most appropriate, too, did it
seem to his little, short, squat figure. I always contended that he
had been a sailor, from the roll and pitch in his gait, and a certain
way he had of giving a lurch whenever he wanted to reach anything
near him. He assured me most positively that such was not the case;
but I still continue to think that he must have been, in some former
state of existence, if not in this. Many men have been convicted
before now on circumstantial evidence, why should not he be also?
Perhaps he did not choose to confess the fact—no man is bound to
criminate himself—therefore I see no good reason for giving up my
first conviction, and many for holding it; ergo, I repeat that I think
he had been a sailor.
I never heard a merrier laugh, or knew a happier nature. He
seemed to possess the blessed faculty of shedding sunshine and joy
all around him; many a harsh word has been hushed, many an
incipient quarrel checked, by his odd, dry way of placing things in a
ludicrous light, and thus changing churlishness into cheerfulness,
moroseness into merriment. Momus certainly presided at his birth,
touched him with his wand, and claimed him for his own.
He had the best reason for his uniform cheerfulness; indeed, the
only one which can ever secure it. His Christianity was of a truly
healthy order, and certainly brought him both content and peace.
During his residence of many months in the hospital, I never saw a
frown upon his face, or heard anything but a bright, joyous laugh, or
pleasant word from him. Often, in my rounds, I would come upon
him, unexpectedly, in some obscure corner, poring over his Bible,
apparently quite absorbed in it, and yet always ready to lay it aside
when he could make himself useful, but returning to it as a pleasure,
when his work was accomplished.
He had a remarkably fine tenor voice, and I have often seen men
of all sorts and tastes gathered round him, listening by the hour to
Methodist hymns, for the sake, we must suppose, of those
uncommon tones, rather than of the words which called them forth.
One morning he came into the ladies’ room, and informed us, with
much delight, that Mr. —— had promised to ask some of the pupils
from the Blind Asylum to come to the hospital the next evening, to
give a concert, begging us to be present.
I told him that, for one of us, that would be quite impossible; it
would be pleasant, but could not be arranged. He seemed much
disappointed, but soon left the room, and I had forgotten all about
it, when, an hour or two later, he burst into the room, quite radiant,
exclaiming, “It’s all fixed, we’ve got it all fixed.”
“What’s all fixed?” said I, my mind intent on some refractory
oysters which refused to boil.
“The concert, to be sure. Mr. —— has arranged it for to-morrow
afternoon, and now you’ll come.”
I thanked him, and gladly accepted for us both, promising to make
all our necessary preparations for the supper of our sick men, quite
early, so that we might be ready in time. At the appointed hour, the
next afternoon, “Little Corning” presented himself.
“Come, ladies, come quickly! the boys are all in the dining-room;
I’ve brought chairs for you, and they’re quite ready to begin.”
“Wait a minute; not just yet; sick men come first.”
 “Oh! please now, come, won’t you? Suppose just for once that the
boys are sick on the field, and never mind them to-night.”
“For shame, sergeant! Such counsel from you? We cannot believe
it. Go in, and we will follow you.”
But although music is his passion, and he is burning to be there,
he gallantly prefers to wait, and be our escort; and in pity for him,
we hurry as much as possible; and now we are done; let us go.
There are our chairs, all arranged for us. What a crowd! At least, a
crowd for our number of well men,—over a hundred, certainly; all
who are fit to be out of their beds, and some who, we very well
know, are not. See how they are jammed together; on benches, on
the dining-table itself, in the windows, and on every available spot,
battered and bandaged, wrappered and wrinkled, suffering and
smiling, in one promiscuous mass. Look at that pale boy, sitting on
the corner of the table on our right; he has been as ill as possible
with typhoid fever, and surely can never sit through the concert in
that position. Let him try for a while, however; the whole scene will
do him more good, by amusing and diverting his mind, than the
exertion can do him harm. Truly, as we glance around, it is a strange
scene. Men from North, East, and West, gathered together—in dress
and undress uniform; from the cavalry jacket, with its yellow facings,
to dressing-gowns and even shirt-sleeves; all eagerly and earnestly
bent upon one idea; but even as they gaze, can you not read their
characters, and place their homes? Each State has its own
characteristics so strongly marked, that I have often laughingly
promised to tell each man in a ward, from whence he came; and
after a little practice, one seldom makes a mistake,—at least never
wanders far from the truth; but we cannot stop to discuss that point
now, as the songs are beginning.
But stop! It cannot be. Look, M., look! It actually is. Our naughty,
disobedient, handsome Harry, with his bandaged limb on a chair,
over there by the window. Only this morning did I hear the surgeon
give orders to have that limb put in a fracture-trough, as the only
means to preserve perfect stillness for it. I saw, later, that it had
been done; and now look—everything removed, and here he is. That
was a very severe wound, from which he has been suffering for
many months; he told me yesterday, that, in all, fifty pieces of bone
had been taken out of his leg; the surgeons rather pride themselves
on having prevented the necessity of amputation by the closest
watching and care; and we cannot help feeling provoked with him
for persisting in moving about, when perfect rest is so essential to
his cure. And yet, who could ever be angry with Harry, for any
length of time? He has a way of his own of winning us over to his
side, and we know what a warm heart beats beneath that wilfulness;
but arguments with him are of little avail; the other day, in reply to
my earnest remonstrances, he said:
“But, Miss ——, my leg is my own, and if I like to have a little fun
now, and lose it afterwards, will any one but myself suffer?”
We have almost given him up as incorrigible. Patriotic songs are
fast following each other,—and certainly the applause is “sui
generis.” Crutches pounded on the floor, and splints hammered on
the table, with an energy and fervor which threaten their own
destruction; but the sightless singers receive it all apparently with
the greatest satisfaction, deeming that the greater the noise, the
greater the pleasure, and probably such is the case.
Listen. What is that tall singer saying? He has already twice
repeated it, but he cannot hope to be heard in this confusion. See!—
he is trying again: “I want you all to be quite still now, and listen to
this song; make no noise, if you please.”
An instant hush, and eager expectation on every face. The singer
begins the well-known “Laughing Chorus,”—well-known here, but
evidently a perfect novelty to these listeners.
For a few moments there is an effort to maintain quiet, but
suddenly their pent-up feelings break forth, and peal after peal of
heartiest laughter rings through the room. In vain they try to stop—a
moment’s pause, and the singer’s voice is heard, seeming only to
give the key-note, which one after another takes up, till, in the wild
storm that follows, they are entirely unaware that he has come to a
conclusion—that it is all over and done, and the singers are leaving.
Just at this moment my eye is caught by our friend, the sergeant,
his head resting on the table, his face almost purple, and his whole
frame literally convulsed with laughter.
“Corning! Corning! stop! you will be sick.”
But in vain; that laugh must be laughed out; and he cannot even
recover himself sufficiently to join in the vote of thanks which the
men are offering to the kind friend who had given them this
enjoyment.
The next morning, when I arrived, I said to M. at once, “How is
Harry, to-day?”
“Not in the least the worse, by his own account; but I hear Little
Corning is in bed—actually made sick, from the effects of the
concert.”
This scarcely surprised me, as I had feared it, knowing that he
was far from strong.
A little later in the morning, something called me over to the ward
in which he was, and as I entered I heard a groan; to my surprise, it
came from our little friend, who was, as M. had heard, in bed, and
evidently suffering.
“Why, sergeant,” said I, “I am sorry to see that the concert has
had such a bad effect.”
But at my approach the groan was turned into a hearty laugh,
though it was quite plain that the suffering continued.
“Oh! Miss ——, don’t, please don’t! I can’t begin again. I ache all
over in each separate muscle, and I’ve lost all faith in you.”
“I don’t want you to begin again; but what do you mean by having
‘lost faith in me?’”
“Why, don’t you remember, you always said a good laugh was the
best medicine?—and it’s come near killing me—oh, dear! oh, dear!”
 “That bottle, standing on the table at your side, Corning, is
marked to be taken by the teaspoonful; perhaps, if you were to
empty it at a dose, it might have the same effect. I never
recommended such immoderate laughter.”
“Oh, please don’t speak of it. It brings it up so.”
The remembrance was quite too much, and one fit of laughter
followed another, strangely interspersed with groans of pain, from
the soreness of the muscles. That merry laugh was at all times most
contagious; the men quickly crowded round, joining in it without
asking any reason, and we bade fair to have the scene of yesterday
re-enacted.
To preserve gravity was quite impossible, there was something so
irresistibly ludicrous in the whole affair, but I felt that it must be
stopped.
“Corning! this will never do; you must control yourself; you will be
ill; and besides, you are disturbing our sick men.”
“I think, Miss ——,” said he, with a violent effort at composure, “if
you won’t take it hard, if you’d just go away; if I didn’t see you, I
might get quiet.”
“Certainly I will. I won’t ‘take it hard,’ at all, and I will come back
when you are quieter.”
“Oh! please no! Oh! don’t come back; if you do, it’ll be as bad as
ever again.”
The idea was quite enough; and the last sound I heard, as I
withdrew my mirth-inspiring presence, was another of those clear,
ringing laughs. How I longed to have the same effect upon the poor
fellows in another ward, where I had vainly racked my brain for
many days, to call up even a faint smile on their depressed and
weary faces. I sent everything over to the sergeant’s ward through
the day, not risking my dangerous presence there; and even at night
judged it better not to go over to say goodbye, although it was
Saturday night, and my duties for the week were over.
 When I came again, my merry friend had been returned to his
regiment, and that had been our final interview. I have often
wondered since, how (if ever) we should meet again? Whether that
last laughing parting will linger in his mind, or whether its memory
shall have been crushed out by the stern realities of war?
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