Free Drummer Boy at Bull Run by Gilbert L. Morris

said, “He’s in Virginia. His father’s in the Confederate army.”
    “Aw, that’s too bad, Miss Leah,” Ira said. “It’s terrible, ain’t it—the way this war’s done tore people up.” He sat there, a lank shape, his homely face in repose. Finally he said, “Well, you write that letter for me, and I’ll make my mark at the end. Rosie knows I can’t write, but she’ll know my mark.”
    Several times during the next few weeks, Ira came to dictate other letters to Rosie. He took considerable jesting from his fellow soldiers, but he never seemed to grow angry. “That’s all right,” he said to Leah. “Let ’em make fun of me. But with letters like you’ve been writing, why, them other fellas back home ain’t got a chance.”
    “Why don’t you let me teach you how to write, Ira?” Leah asked. “You’re smart enough—it wouldn’t take you any time to learn.”
    Ira shook his head. “Naw, I reckon not. I got me a good letter writer already, and I’m thinking this shooting will be over before I have time to learn anything as complicated as writing. Naw, you just keep writing to Rosie for me.”
    * * *
    It was on a fine afternoon the last of May that Mr. Lincoln came down to inspect the army. All of the companies were driven by their sergeants into their best appearance. Buckles were polished, uniforms had to be neatly pressed and beards trimmed.
    And on the afternoon President Lincoln came, Leah and her father were close enough to see him where he stood in his box.
    “My, he’s tall, isn’t he?” Leah said. She studied his face. “And he doesn’t look at all like a gorilla—not like those Southern newspapers call him.”
    “No,” her father agreed, “he’s got a kind look on his face, hasn’t he? I think he’s just the man we need for our president.”
    For the next two hours the two stood and watched the parade.
    First the infantry strutted by. Company after company divided into brigades, their buttons sparkling in the sun, as—bayonets fixed and gleaming—they marched past the president’s box.
    Then the ground rumbled as teams drew the caissons and cannons by—row after row of them, one man seated on a horse, the other seated on the caisson. After this came a thundering charge by the cavalry, all dressed in blue, their sabers drawn, flashing in the sun.
    Next was a demonstration of artillery fire so that the ground seemed to shake with the sound of the explosions.
    Finally, it was over. Leah and her father went back at once to their wagon, knowing they would be besieged by the soldiers on such an occasion as this. They had laid in a large store of good things to eat, and, as the soldiers crowded around, Mr. Carter murmured, “I wish we could just give this away to these fine young men.”
    “If we did that,” Leah said practically, “we wouldn’t be able to buy any more to pass out to the others.” She was aware that her father was making very little money. He couldn’t bear to see a young soldier who had no money go away empty-handed.
    They worked hard for an hour, and finally the crowd thinned out. All of a sudden someone said, “Look, there he is—Mr. Lincoln!”
    Leah looked up in surprise. The president, accompanied by several government leaders and a group of officers, was making his way down through the troops. Every once in a while, President Lincoln would stop and talk to a lowly private and shake his hand.
    “Pa, he’s coming this way!” Leah whispered with excitement. “I’d give anything just to shake his hand.”
    Then Abraham Lincoln paused right in front of their wagon. His warm brown eyes fell on her, and he advanced at once. He seemed very tall as he looked down at Leah.
    “Well, young lady, I’m glad to see you here serving our fine soldiers.”
    “Yes, sir.” She stumbled, barely able to speak for excitement. “My father and I, we came to do all we could for the Union.”
    “And what might your name be?” the president inquired.
    “I’m