“Oh，well，sheain’ttobementioned。She’sDutch。“
“OroldMis’Snively。Onemorecupo’tea，Mary。That’smygirl!
I’mfeelingbetteralready。Ijustb’lievethematterwithmeis，I’mstarved。“
Thiswasadelicioushour，onelongtoberemembered。Theywerelikeloversagain。Buttheirtenderness，likethatofatypicalAmerican，foundutteranceintones，ratherthaninwords。Hewaspraisingherwhenpraisingherbiscuit，andsheknewit。Theygrewsobererwhenheshowedwherehehadbeenstruck，oneballburningthebackofhishand，onecuttingawayalockofhairfromhistemple，andonepassingthroughthecalfofhisleg。Thewifeshudderedtothinkhownearshehadcometobeingasoldier’swidow。Herwaitingnolongerseemedhard。Thissweet，glorioushoureffaceditall。
Thentheyroseandallwentoutintothegardenanddowntothebarn。HestoodbesideherwhileshemilkedoldSpot。Theybegantoplanfieldsandcropsfornextyear。HerewastheepicfigurewhichWhitmanhasinmind，andwhichhecallsthe“commonAmericansoldier。“Withtheliveryofwaronhislimbs，thismanwasfacinghisfuture，histhoughtsholdingnoscentofbattle。