Woodbury was down to see me the day before his death, and as he left my tent he said, "I feel sensible that I am not going to get out alive," and his prediction proved true. A mother's heart bled at the loss of her hero son; was there not also a throb of pride that he died such a good soldier—such a brave, noble-hearted man?
Every effort was made to find his body, but they were unavailing. His name and regiment were pinned to his clothing by the hands of a comrade, after he died; but although the search was close and long, they failed to discover his remains, and he was doubtless buried where he died, in the soldier's nameless grave.
His sleep is as peaceful as though the sods of his native valley covered him, and spring sows as sweet flowers to deck the green trenches of Virginia, as those which blossom in the quiet Northern grave-yards.
The lovely summer weather seemed profaned by these deeds of death, but our convalescents enjoyed the long warm days, when no fatiguing marches or wearing duty rendered them conscious of the heat. They sat at tent doors dreaming of the days which were gone, striving hard to forget the terrible scenes through which they had so recently passed.
