Identifier: mystoryofwarwoma1889live (find matches)
Title: My story of the war: a woman's narrative of four years personal experience as nurse in the Union army, and in relief work at home, in hospitals, camps, and at the front, during the war of the rebellion
Year: 1889 (1880s)
Authors: Livermore, Mary Ashton Rice, 1820-1905
Subjects: United States Sanitary Commission Flags
Publisher: Hartford, A. D. Worthington and company
Contributing Library: Harold B. Lee Library
Digitizing Sponsor: Brigham Young University

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raph of a most lovely woman. You wish me towrite to the person who has sent you this letter? He nodded slightly, and feebly whispered, Mywife. Bowing her head, and folding her hands. Miss Saf-ford offered a brief touching prayer in behalf of thedying man, bending low over him that he might hearher softly spoken words. Her voice faltered a little,as she remembered in her prayer the far-absent wife,so near bereavement*. Amen! responded the dy-ing man, in a distinct voice, and then we left himwith the attendant, to minister to others. Lifting thephotograph, he gazed at it earnestly for a few mo-ments, pressed it to his lips, and then clasped it inboth hands. When I returned to his bed, sometwenty minutes later, he was still looking upward,his hands still clasping the photograph, and his facewas irradiated with the most heavenly smile I haveever seen on any face. I spoke to him, but he seemednot to hear, and there was a far-away look in thegaze, as though his vision reached beyond my ken.
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LETTEK OF A SUPERIOR WOMAN. 213 I stood still, awestruck. The wardmaster ap-proached, and laid his finger on the wrist. He isdead! he whispered. The duty of writing the widowed wife was as-signed me, and I took the letter and photograph.Ah, what a letter was that which the dying man hadplaced in my hands! He had evidently not repliedto it, for it had been only just received, and had notthe worn look of having been carried long in thepocket. It was from his wife, informing her husbandof the death, on the same day, of their two children,three and five years old. It was the letter of a supe-rior woman, who wrote nobly and tenderly, hidingher own grief, in her desire to comfort her husband. I do not feel that we have lost our children,thus she wrote; they are ours still, and will be oursforever. Their brief life was all sunshine, and bytheir early departure they are spared all experienceof sorrow and wrong. They can never know thekeen heartache that you and I must suffer at theirloss. It

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