This is the story which the Major told me，as nearly as I can recall it：
In the winter of 1862—63I was commandant of Fort Trumbull，at New London，Conn.Maybe our life there was not so brisk as life at “the front”；still it was brisk enough，in its way—one's brains didn't cake together there for lack of something to keep them stirring.For one thing，all the Northern atmosphere at that time was thick with mysterious rumors—rumors to the effect that rebel spies were flitting everywhere，and getting ready to blow up our Northern forts，burn our hotels，send infected clothing into our towns，and all that sort of thing.You remember it.All this had a tendency to keep us awake，and knock the traditional dullness out of garrison life.Besides，ours was a recruiting station—which is the same as saying we hadn't any time to waste in dozing，or dreaming，or fooling around.Why，with all our watchfulness，fifty per cent.of a day's recruits would leak out of our hands and give us the slip the same night.The bounties were so prodigious that a recruit could pay a sentinel three or four hundred dollars to let him escape，and still have enough of his bounty-money left to constitute a fortune for a poor man.Yes，as I said before，our life was not drowsy.
Well，one day I was in my quarters alone，doing some writing，when a pale and ragged lad of fourteen or fifteen entered，made a neat bow，and said：
“I believe recruits are received here？”
“Yes.”
“Will you please enlist me，sir？”
“Dear me，no！You are too young，my boy，and too small.”
A disappointed look came into his face，and quickly deepened into an expression of despondency.He turned slowly away，as if to go；hesitated，then faced me again，and said，in a tone that went to my heart：
“I have no home，and not a friend in the world.If you could only enlist me！”
But of course the thing was out of the question，and I said so as gently as I could.Then I told him to sit down by the stove and warm himself，and added：
“You shall have something to eat，presently.You are hungry？”
He did not answer；he did not need to；the gratitude in his big，soft eyes was more eloquent than any words could have been.He sat down by the stove，and I went on writing.Occasionally I took a furtive glance at him.I noticed that his clothes and shoes，although soiled and damaged，were of good style and material.This fact was suggestive.To it I added the facts that his voice was low and musical；his eyes deep and melancholy；his carriage and address gentlemanly；evidently the poor chap was in trouble.As a result，I was interested.
However，I became absorbed in my work by and by，and forgot all about the boy.I don't know how long this lasted；but at length I happened to look up.The boy's back was toward me，but his face was turned in such a way that I could see one of his cheeks—and down that cheek a rill of noiseless tears was flowing.
“God bless my soul！”I said to myself；“I forgot the poor rat was starving.”Then I made amends for my brutality by saying to him，“Come along，my lad；you shall dine with me；I am alone to-day.”
He gave me another of those grateful looks，and happy light broke in his face.At the table he stood with his hand on his chair-back until I was seated，then seated himself.I took up my knife and fork and—well，I simply held them，and kept still；for the boy had inclined his head and was saying a silent grace.A thousand hallowed memories of home and my childhood poured in upon me，and I sighed to think how far I had drifted from religion and its balm for hurt minds，its comfort and solace and support.
As our meal progressed I observed that young Wicklow—Robert Wicklow was his full name—knew what to do with his napkin；and—well，in a word，I observed that he was a boy of good breeding；never mind the details.He had a simple frankness，too，which won upon me.We talked mainly about himself，and I had no difficulty in getting his history out of him.When he spoke of his having been born and reared in Louisiana，I warmed to him decidedly，for I had spent some time down there.I knew all the “coast”region of the Mississippi，and loved it，and had not been long enough away from it for my interest in it to begin to pale.The very names that fell from his lips sounded good to me—so good that I steered the talk in directions that would bring them out：Baton Rouge，Plaquemine，Donaldsonville，Sixty-mile Point，Bonnet-Carré，the Stock Landing，Carrollton，the Steamship Landing，the Steamboat Landing，New Orleans，Tchoupitoulas Street，the Esplanade，the Rue des Bons Enfants，the St.Charles Hotel，the Tivoli Circle，the Shell Road，Lake Pontchartrain；and it was particularly delightful to me to hear once more of the R.E.Lee，the Natchez，the Eclipse，the General Quitman，the Duncan F.Kenner，and other old familiar steamboats.It was almost as good as being back there，these names so vividly reproduced in my mind the look of the things they stood for.Briefly，this was little Wicklow's history：