



Produced by Charles Aldarondo







ON PICKET DUTY, AND OTHER TALES

By L. M. Alcott

Boston:

NEW YORK:

1864




ON PICKET DUTY.


_WHAT_ air you thinkin' of, Phil?

"My wife, Dick."

"So was I! Aint it odd how fellers fall to thinkin' of thar little
women, when they get a quiet spell like this?"

"Fortunate for us that we do get it, and have such gentle bosom
guests to keep us brave and honest through the trials and
temptations of a life like ours."

October moonlight shone clearly on the solitary tree, draped with
gray moss, scarred by lightning and warped by wind, looking like a
venerable warrior, whose long campaign was nearly done; and
underneath was posted the guard of four. Behind them twinkled many
camp-fires on a distant plain, before them wound a road ploughed by
the passage of an army, strewn with the relics of a rout. On the
right, a sluggish river glided, like a serpent, stealthy, sinuous,
and dark, into a seemingly impervious jungle; on the left, a
Southern swamp filled the air with malarial damps, swarms of noisome
life, and discordant sounds that robbed the hour of its repose. The
men were friends as well as comrades, for though gathered from the
four quarters of the Union, and dissimilar in education, character,
and tastes, the same spirit animated all; the routine of camp life
threw them much together, and mutual esteem soon grew into a bond of
mutual good fellowship.

Thorn was a Massachusetts volunteer; a man who