Free Alcott, Louisa May - SSC 11 by Glimpses of Louisa (v2.1)

ain't wrong. It's a number of years sence we
met, and you don't remember Joe Collins as well as he does you, I reckon?"
                            
"Why, how you have changed! I've been seeing you every day all winter, and
never knew you," I said, shaking hands with my old patient, and very glad
to see him.
                            
"Nigh on to twenty years makes consid'able of a change in folks, 'specially if they have a pretty hard row to hoe."
                            
"Sit down and warm yourself while you tell me all about it; there is no
hurry for this answer, and I'll pay for your time."
                            
Joe laughed as if that was a good joke, and sat down as if the fire was quite
as welcome as the friend.
                            
"How are they all at home?" I asked, as he sat turning his cap round,
not quite knowing where to begin.
                             "I haven't got any home nor any folks neither;" and the melancholy words banished the brightness from his rough face like a
cloud. "Mother died soon after I got back. Suddin', but
she was ready, and I was there, so she was happy. Jim lived a number of
years, and was a sight of care, poor feller; but we managed to rub along,
though we had to sell the farm: for I couldn't do much with one arm, and
doctor's bills right along stiddy take a heap of money. He was as comfortable
as he could be; and, when he was gone, it wasn't no great matter, for there was only me, and I don't mind roughin' it."
                            
"But Lucindy, where was she?" I asked very naturally.
                            
"Oh! she married another man long ago. Couldn't expect her to take me and my misfortins. She's doin'
well, I hear, and that's a comfort anyway."
                            
There was a look on Joe's face, a tone in Joe's voice as he spoke,
that plainly showed how much he had needed comfort when left to bear his
misfortunes all alone. But he made no complaint, uttered no reproach, and
loyally excused Lucindy's desertion with a simple sort of dignity that made it
impossible to express pity or condemnation.
                            
"How came you here, Joe?" I asked, making a sudden leap from past to
present.
                            
"I had to scratch for a livin', and can't do much: so, after tryin' a
number of things, I found this. My old wounds pester me a good deal, and
rheumatism is bad winters; but, while my legs hold out, I can git on. A man
can't set down and starve; so I keep waggin' as long as I can. When I can't do
no more, I s'pose there's almshouse and hospital ready for me."
                            
"That is a dismal prospect, Joe. There ought to be a comfortable place for
such as you to spend your last days in. I am sure you have earned it."
                            
"Wal, it does seem ruther hard on us when we've give all we had, and give
it free and hearty, to be left to knock about in our old age. But there's so
many poor folks to be took care of, we don't get much of a chance, for we ain't the beggin' sort," said
Joe, with a wistful look at the wintry world outside, as if it would be better
to lie quiet under the snow, than to drag out his last painful years,
friendless and forgotten, in some refuge of the poor.
                            
"Some kind people have been talking of a home for soldiers, and I hope the
plan will be carried out. It will take time; but, if it comes to pass, you
shall be one of the first men to enter that home, Joe, if I can get you
there."
                             "That sounds mighty cheerin' and comfortable, thanky,
ma'am. Idleness is dreadful tryin' to me, and I'd rather wear out than
rust out; so I