The Patriot Blood Of My Father Was

An Institution Or Reform Movement That Is Not Selfish, Must Originate In The Recognition Of Some Evil That Is Adding To The Sum Of Human Suffering, Or Diminishing The Sum Of Happiness.

A Ball Had Passed Between My Body And The Right Arm Which Supported Him, Cutting Through The Sleeve And Passing Through His Chest From Shoulder To Shoulder. There Was No More To Be Done For Him And I Left Him To His Rest. I Have Never Mended That Hole In My Sleeve.

What Armies And How Much Of War I Have Seen, What Thousands Of Marching Troops, What Fields Of Slain, What Prisons, What Hospitals, What Ruins, What Cities In Ashes, What Hunger And Nakedness, What Orphanages, What Widowhood, What Wrongs And What Vengeance.

It Is Wise Statesmanship Which Suggests That In Time Of Peace We Must Prepare For War, And It Is No Less A Wise Benevolence That Makes Preparation In The Hour Of Peace For Assuaging The Ills That Are Sure To Accompany War.

My Business Is Stanching Blood And Feeding Fainting Men; My Post The Open Field Between The Bullet And The Hospital. I Sometimes Discuss The Application Of A Compress Or A Wisp Of Hay Under A Broken Limb, But Not The Bearing And Merits Of A Political Movement. I Make Gruel--not Speeches; I Write Letters Home For Wounded Soldiers, Not Political Addresses.