A fair hit, my boy—a fair hit; and sorry should I be to let the sweet South breathe upon any kind of a bank in which I had a deposit.
Speaking of violets; the woman of America sent one of those pretty flowers in her note; and, as I looked upon it, I thought how fit it was to be
THE SOLDIER'S EPITAPH.
The woodlands caught the airy fire upon their vernal plumes,
And echoed back the waterfall's exultant, trilling laugh,
And through the branches fell the light in slender golden blooms
To write upon the sylvan stream the Naiad's epitaph.
On either side the sleeping vale the mountains swelled away,
Like em'ralds in the mourning ring that circles round the world
And through the flow'r-enamel'd plain the river went astray,