"
There was not a man in the town but believed the war was over;
there was not a man in the town who doubted that his country's
cause was won.
Three weeks is a long time to a youth near manhood, but there was
much of joy to while away the hours. The mothers of the town came
and read and talked. There was news from the front. There were
victories on the high seas. His comrades came to sit beside him;
Seymour, the sprinter, as merry a soul as ever hankered for the
stage and the red cups of life; Fiske, the silent, and McGlassin,
too, with his dry, humorous talk; these were the bright and funny
hours. There were others. There came a bright-checked Vermont
mother whose three sons had died in service at MacDonough's guns;
and she told of it in a calm voice, as one who speaks of her
proudest honour. Yes, she rejoiced that God had given her three
such sons, and had taken again His gifts in such a day of glory.
Had England's rulers only known, that this was the spirit of the
land that spoke, how well they might have asked: "What boots it
if we win a few battles, and burn a few towns; it is a little
gain and passing; for there is one thing that no armies, ships,
or laws, or power on earth, or hell itself can down or crush --
that alone is the thing that counts or endures -- the thing that
permeates these men, that finds its focal centre in such souls as
that of the Vermont mother, steadfast, proud, and rejoicing in
her bereavement.
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