We miss you all in manny ways,
But troth will ware out;
The gratest things we miss you for
Joy going withe out.
On Sunday when we go to church,
We look in vane for sum
To mete us smilin on the porch,
And ask to see us home.
And then we dont enjoy a walk
Since all the bows have gone;
For what the good to us plain talk
If we must trip alone?
But what the use talkin thus
We will try to beecontent
And if you cannot come to us
A message may bee cent.
And that one comfort any way
Although we are Apart,
There is no reason why we may
Not open hart to hart.
We trust it may not ever come
To any War like test,
We want to see our Southern home
Secured in peaceful rest.
But if the blood of those we love
In freedoms cause must floo,
With fervent trust in Lov Above
We bid them onward go.
Written By your friend,
M. H. Cantrell.
I inclose you the original document. I suppose the aforesaid lovyer did "onward go," and, no doubt, is still going, if he has not already reached the town of Jonesboro, and met his gal upon "the porch" as she returned from church.
Snake-hunting has given way to trout-fishing. As a matter of course, the noise of camp has driven all trout four miles from our present abode; but scarcely a day passes but our men return with a nice string of these delicious denizens of the brooks hereabouts.