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ABOUT THE LOVE GAME
THEN Dave wrote, again, that he must join the army down there—or come home—or at least get out of Virginia. They were lynching Union men whenever they were not otherwise busy, which, thank heaven, was not often. All that saved him was that they didn't know whether he was Union or rebel—he didn't himself. He wanted to know that—strictly confidential. If he was Union, he'd skedaddle. If he wasn't, he'd join something down there. There was no school no more, anyhow. The president of the college was a colonel in the Fairfax Cavalry, and the chaplain was an independent guerrilla captain. He ended by asking who wrote our letter at the beginning and who else at the end, and who slopped water on it, and why did it smell like the flowers in the three-cornered pasture.
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