CHAPTER XXV.
This pleasant day, so like the days long gone, with sighing wind, and sunny air which send the homesick tears into my eyes, and I cannot keep them back with all my efforts at composure! If I could pour out my heart into some sympathetic ear, perhaps I could find release from all this; but there is no one here for me, and I must keep the sad thoughts in my own bosom.
When will my girls know a mother's love again? Do they think it a long waiting for the cruel war to close? Do they see the days go by as once they went with me—seasons in weeks—ages in a year?
After a sleepless night I arose at reveille, and tried to write a few lines, but the wind and rain kept up an incessant roar all night, and the water dripped down on to my face, driving sleep from my tortured eyelids. Well, this is the poetry of campaigning. I sometimes think I will go home, but the first low wail of pain from a wounded soldier softens me in a
