This description of a “soldier boy” was written by Chaplain John J. Hight, 58th Indiana.

Oh, the wild, glorious, roving life of a bold soldier boy! With all thy faults, I love thee still. How pleasant the sweet consciousness that God gives him that he fights in a good cause. His soul is unfettered by the trammels of civilized life. Does he desire to worship? Where he is is his church. Does he wish for sleep? He says with Tecumseh, “The earth is my mother; I will repose on her bosum.” No  pent up Utica contracts his powers; he travels far and near, seeing many lands. He sails on the ocean, steams on the river, rattles on the cars, trudges on the mud road, and climbs bold mountains. He bares his breast to the storm and says, “Thou art my borther.” The gentle rains fall upon his brow, and he welcomes them as a mother’s kiss. He would not exchange the cooling draught of water from the sparkling fountain for all of the drinks of the most fashionable saloon. His fare is rough, but then his appetite is good, and he is not sickened over dainties. He lives a life of toil, but his muscles are strong and his heart is brave. He exists amid dangers, but he heeds them not, for the smiles of the fair, the prayers of the good, and the hopes of the oppressed cheer him on. When he stands in battle, his soul sinks not in fear, for above him is the flag of the free, and beneath the soil he would lie, rather than yield to tyrants. The canon’s deadly roar, the crash of arms, the shout of the charge are his music. If victory comes, his soul is filled with indescribable joy. If he fails, full well he knows, “Whether on the scaffold high, — Or in the battle’s van, — The noblest places for man to die — Is where he dies for man.”

If he perish, true hearted comrades will dig his grave. “No useless coffin will enclose his form; he will lay like a warrior, taking his rest, with his martial cloak around him.” Why need he dread death? Is not the grave the common receptacle of the young, the beautiful, the beloved? Let not the brave then fear to die. His memory shall be cherished by those who love him. The mighty deeds in “which he bore an humble part shall live in the traditions of a thousand generations - but, hush, my wandering thoughts! Stillness reigns in camp, ’tis time for sleep. Good night.