LETTER XXIII.
Benton Barracks Hospital,
June 15.
Dear Mother,—I finished one letter to you yesterday
afternoon, and am going to begin another. We
had a funny scene in one of the wards last week. One
of the orderlies came over in great haste for the Doctor
of the ward; he was not in, so over I went as fast as I
could. Lucky I did; I found the man on his bed, he
averring he felt as if he had a fish-bone in his throat,
the nurses insisting he had diphtheria, on the strength
of which they were wrapping the throat in flannel and
preparing a hot foot-bath. I did not see any signs of
diphtheria, but there were signs of choking. I sent for
another surgeon; he came; had the man put by the
window-light, and pulled out a fish-bone, tightly bedded
in his throat. Would not the foot-bath have been
beneficial? Neither the Doctor nor I could help having
a hearty laugh.
I like being here, it is very pleasant now. I hope
I shall have strength to continue and wisdom to do
right.
Wednesday. We are impatient for our new patients.
Nine hundred sick and wounded were carried to Jefferson
Barracks, twelve miles below the city, this week.
Our turn will come next I suppose.
It is play-time just now, compared with what hospital
life usually is; though a person unaccustomed to
it would think we had plenty to do. In one of the
wards, the nurses went to work and made a handsome
flag, which was hung with appropriate ceremonies, and
a speech from the surgeon of the ward. One ward has
got a new design of evergreen ornaments, large stars;
they are very pretty. They have great pleasure in
fixing up their wards in all sorts of ways, some not in
particularly good taste. I have a new attaché, a white
poodle, belonging to the cook of the nurses' dining-house.
Poodle has thought proper to become attached
to me.
I wish Sabra would go to the Massachusetts General
Hospital and see Mrs. Mudgett, give her my love, and
ask how she does; then write and let me know; also
tell me how Joanna Welsh is, and remember me to her.
Some of the men here are quite sick, some dying.
There will be plenty of that by and by, I fear. I
shall be glad when I, too, am called home, but I want
to be of use while I stay. I wonder whether I shall
ever sleep in my blue room again.
