The disciples had their hands full when their lord

The disciples had their hands full when their Lord and
Master was crucified. I do not measure my little boy as any
kind of lord but he was my son, a promise. The father in me
does not go away.
I go, now, to curry Old Abe.
I would like to chop wood a while.
White House
Summer
Again I am besieged by office seekers. I can name a
hundred: Whitney, Schurz, Collaman, Blair, Wallace. They
seek posts as consuls, envoys, inspectors, paymasters,
commissioners, postmasters. Although I now have fixed
hours, they intrude. Favors, all wish favors! I am accused of
nepotism by the press, by staff and cabinet members. How
would they shuffle the cards? Responsible positions are
wrestled over by Vermonters and New Yorkers vying with
Missourians and Ohioans.
Note:
Speak to Capt. Dobson about
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V
OICES FROM THE
P
AST
balloon observations. Work out
telegraphic communication with
the balloon observer.
August 20th
I woke early. It is already hot. No breeze.
I look out of the windows at the tents of the wounded.
Behind the tents is the river, flattened by the heat. I have
been inside of each tent several times. I have seen inside
some of those men; I listen; I wait and listen. There are men
with letters from home, men with Bibles beside them. Men or
boys. Perhaps there is no essential difference when one is
wounded. Man or boy is lost. There is no catching up for him.
His trip home will show him a different world; if he goes
home in a coffin—his homecoming makes that home unreal
forever. One boy shows me a minié ball extracted from his
leg. One man tells me how much we need a balloon corps.
Another grasps my hand but can’t say a word. At the very
back of the tent someone is playing a harmonica, the “Camp
Town Races”...or so it was yesterday.
The White House
Summer
Today I have been able to pardon two boys accused of
dereliction of duty, Company K, while on guard near
Washington. Regardless of reports I feel that they had
carried the Union on their bayonets. Cramer and Phillips will
have a second chance.
The heat of the afternoon has been oppressive; to cool me
off, my mulatto brought me a cool drink on her famous tray;
then a chaplain and a private spun stories of regimental pets.
Once again I heard of the eagle in the 8th Wisconsin
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INCOLN
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S
J
OURNAL
Volunteers. He is still alive after being in battles in seven
states. His six-and-a-half-foot wingspread has been crippled
by bullets; they say he screams when his Corps sees action.
A Minnesota unit manages to keep a half-grown bear; they
swear he is the best picket-duty man. A black and white dog,
named Jacko, has been dubbed a “brave soldier dog,”
because he has been wounded twice, while his men were in
action.
I have also learned that there are gamecocks, a coon, and
several badgers in the field. Mascots all.