He explained that the soldier with the bandaged head
had been shot in the mouth, and could take only soft food. I said,
"Don't give him that. I will bring him some mush and milk, or some
chicken soup." He set down the cup, looked at me with queer, half-shut
eyes, then remarked, "Yer ga-assin' now, ain't ye?"
Having finally convinced him that I was not, I retired for a moment to
send the nurse for some food. When it came, and while I was slowly
putting spoonfuls of broth into the poor, shattered mouth of his
friend, he stood looking on complacently, though with his lip
quivering. I said to him, "Now, what would _you_ like?" After a
moment's hesitation he replied, "Well, lady, I've been sort of
hankerin' after a sweet-potato pone, but I s'pose ye couldn't noways
get that?" "There," thought I, "that's just what I will get and give
them all for Christmas dinner."
Hastening to interview the surgeon in charge, I easily obtained
permission to go on the next day among the farmers to collect
materials for my feast. An ambulance was placed at my disposal.
My foraging expedition was tolerably successful, and I returned next
evening with a quantity of sweet potatoes, several dozen eggs, and
some country butter.
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