The call of the bugle sounds on
the night air; it is the "taps" at the Soldiers' Home; the salt water
is beating with lazy monotone against the shore; the fisherman have
tied up their boats; the last omnibus has crossed the bridge; the young
moon is getting to her bed and I turn my face toward the long street
and the bright hotel. A man of high-toned and poetic mind would here
insert something about his thoughts turning to his mountain home. Alas!
mine are turned with eager curiosity to what my breakfast tomorrow
would be, reflecting as I do that I am now in the land, or rather
water, of oysters, soft crabs and fish. After all, of what common clay
we are made!
* * * * *
The redeeming feature of ill-health, to me, has been that for the last
few months I have been thrown with many invalids and enjoyed their
confidence to the fullest, (and sometimes the most, to some extent).
There seems to be a sort of free-masonry among sick people by which
they at once become friendly and familiar. There is, also, if you only
knew it, an aristocracy of ill-health; that is, a man with two
complaints stands much higher with his fellow invalids than a man with
one; and a man who has been sick for five years stands immeasurably
higher than a mere cadet who has not been sick six months.
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