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It was under a blue cap that I first saw the honest face of Joe Collins. In the third year of the late war a Maine regiment¹ was passing through Boston, on its way to Washington. The Common was all alive with troops and the spectators who clustered round them to say God-speed, as the brave fellows marched away to meet danger and death for our sakes.

 

Every one was eager to do something; and, as the men stood at ease, the people mingled² freely with them, offering gifts, hearty³ grips of the hand, and hopeful prophecies of victory in the end. Irresistibly⁴ attracted, my boy Tom and I drew near, and soon, becoming excited by the scene, ravaged⁵ the fruit-stands in our neighborhood for tokens of our regard, mingling⁶ candy and congratulations, peanuts and prayers, apples and applause, in one enthusiastic jumble⁷.

 

While Tom was off on his third raid, my attention was attracted by a man who stood a little apart, looking as if his thoughts were far away. All the men were fine, stalwart fellows, as Maine men usually are; but this one over-topped his comrades, standing⁸ straight and tall as a Norway pine, with a face full of the mingled shrewdness, sobriety, and self-possession of the typical New Englander. I liked the look of him; and, seeing that he seemed solitary⁹, even in a crowd, I offered him my last apple with a word of interest. The keen blue eyes met mine gratefully, and the apple began to vanish in vigorous bites as we talked; for no one thought of ceremony at such a time.

 

"Where are you from?"

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