I couldn't decide which picture to upload today to show you our snowy day, so I uploaded them both, how's that for making a decision!
And since it is snowing, I thought what a great day to share a favorite poem. This is a long poem so I hope you appreciate all my typing!
So ye're runnin' fer Congress, mister? Le' me tell ye 'bout my son---
Might make you fellers carefuller down there in Washington---
He clings to his rifle an' uniform---folks call him Whisperin' Bill;
An' I tell ye the war ain't over yit up here on Bouman's Hill.
This dooryard is his battlefield--le's see, he was nigh sixteen
When Sumter fell, an' as likely a boy as ever this world has seen;
An' what with the news o' battles lost, the speeches an' all the noise,
I guess ev'ry farm in the neighborhood lost a part of its crop o' boys.
'Twas harvest time when Bill left home: ev'ry stalk in the fields o' rye
Seemed to stan' tiptoe tosee him off an' wave him a fond good-bye;
His sweetheart was here with some other gals--the sassy little miss!
An' purtendin' she wanted to whisper'n his ear, she gave him a rousin' kiss.
Oh, he was a han'some feller!an' tender an' brave an' smart,
An' though he was bigger'n I was, the boy had a woman's heart.
I couldn't control my feelin's, but I tried with all my might,
An' his mother an' me stood a-cryin' till Bill was out o' sight.
His mother she often tol' him, when she knew he was goin' away,
That God would take care o' him, maybe, if he didn't fergit to pray;
An' on the bloodiest battlefields, when bullets whizzed in the air,
An' Bill was a-fightin' desperit, he used to whisper a prayer.
Oh, his comrades has often told me that Bill never flinched a bit
When every second a gap in the ranks tol' where a ball had hit.
An' one night when the field was covered with the awful harvest o' war,
They found my boy 'mongst the martyrs o' the cause he was fightin' for.
His fingers was clutched in the dewy grass--oh, no, sir, he wasn't dead,
But he lay kind o' helpless an' crazy with a rifle-ball in his head;
An' he trembled with the battle-fear as he lay there in the dew;
An' he whispered as he tried to rise: "God'll take care o' you."
An officer wrote an' tol' us how the boy had been hurt in the fight,
But he said that the doctors reckoned they could bring him around all right.
An' then we heard from a neighbor, disabled at Malvern Hill,
That he thought in the course of a week or so he'd be comin' home with Bill.
We was anxious t' see him we'd set up an' talk o' nights
'Till the break o' day had dimmed the stars an' put out the northern lights,
We waited an' watched fer a month or more, the summer was nearly past,
When a letter came one day that said they'd started fer home at last.
I'll never fergit the day Bill come---'twas harvest time again---
An the air blown oveer the yeller fields was sweet with the scent o' the grain;
The dooryard was full o' the neighbors, who had come to share our joy,
An' all of us sent up a mighty cheer at the sight o' that soldier boy.
An' all of a sudden somebody said; "My God! don't the boy know his mother?"
An' Bill stood a-whisperin', fearful like, an' a-starin' from one to another;
"Don't be afraid, Bill," said he to himself, as he stood in his coat o' blue,
"Why, God'll take care o' you, Bill, God'll take care o' you."
He seemed to be loadin' an' firin' a gun, an' to act like a man who hears
The awful roar o' the battlefield a-soundin' in his ears;
Ten thousan' ghosts o' that bloody day was marchin' through his brain
An' his feet they kind o' picked their way as if they felt the slain.
An' I grabbed his hand, an' say I to Bill, "Don't ye 'member me?
I'm yer father--don't ye know me? How frightened ye seem to be!"
But the boy kep' a-whisperin' to himself, as if 'twas all he knew,
"God'll take care o' you, Bill, God'll take care o' you."
He's never known us since that day, nor his sweetheart, an' never will;
Father an' Mother an' sweetheart are all the same to Bill.
An' he groans like a wounded soldier, sometimes the whole night through,
An' we smooth his head an' say: "Yes, Bill, He'll surely take care o' you."
Ye can stop a war in a minute, but when can ye stop the groans?
Fer ye've broke our hearts an' sapped our blood an' plucked away our bones.
An' ye've filled our souls with bitterness that goes from sire to son,
So ye best be kind o' careful down there in Washington.
Written by Irving Bacheller
Whew! It's a sad poem but has a good heart to it.
Spoke with Adam and he was resting after being busy getting Millie over to the new (older) hospital there in Seattle. If you want to, she can have flowers there! The hospital's address is up on the right side of this blog. She can't look at them yet, but maybe she can smell them and sense that they are there. If she wakes up it will be so beautiful around her too.
Psssst, don't tell anyone I told you but ---here's just a little bit of something I picked up in Adam's talk today; a nurse at Providence said (before Mille left Providence) that she (the nurse) guessed Millie would be able to go home in about two weeks after shes been to the other hospital. That would be great! I would love to be able to visit her here in Alaska! She'd be back in time for the Native Musicale.
Day 52, almost as many days sleeping as she is old! What if --- she woke up on the day of her age. AWWWW, I wish!