land of the sun. The birds are there—the blue skies, the tender flowers, beaded with rain and dew; and man may do as he will, she will never fail to renovate when the iron heel is taken from the long pressed sod.
When the screaming shell ceased to speed on its death errand, and the cannon to belch forth its lurid fires, these birds returned, singing in the bright mornings, only to take leave when the black frosts touched with withering fingers all that was frail, and lovely, and blooming.
The trees were naked again, the hill-sides were bleak, and we shrunk from the bitter wind, thinking of another long winter in camp. The army was still amidst active operations, and the foe yet lifted its brazen head strong for the battle. The chill blasts crept into every forgotten aperture, and we drew our blankets closer over us in the dark lonesome midnights.
Yes, it was settled we were again to pass a winter in the South—when the last spring opened I had said, "We will go home before cold weather assails us again," but yet we lingered, rebellion still rampant, and the horrid Moloch of War yet unappeased.
The semblance of Northern seasons dropped upon us in promising flakes, but the white robe was like ermine only for a few moments, the feet of nurse, and cook, and guard defiled its purity, and the sticky mud was left alone after the snow wept itself out in silent tears.
Our ranks were constantly recruited, and the days
