So he smoked and smoked, and the wreath he blew—
“Any sure news of Mosby’s crew?”
He smoked and smoked, eying the while
A huge tree hydra-like in growth—
Moon-tinged—with crook’d boughs rent or lopped—
Itself a haggard forest. “Come”
The Colonel cried, “to talk you’re loath;
D’ye hear? I say he must be stopped,
This Mosby—caged, and hair close cropped.”
“Of course; but what’s that dangling there”