One Wounded Soldier’s View
“Every Sunday there were half a dozen old
roosters who would come into my ward and
preach and pray and sing to us, while we
were swearing to ourselves all the time, and
wishing the blamed old fools would go
away. Walt Whitman’s funny stories, and
his pipes and tobaccos, were worth more
than all the preachers and tracts in
Christendom.”