Sixty-four is
ushered in bleak and rough. The year has died, but its blood-wrought history
will live co-equal with time. The war clouds have hung long over a stricken
people bringing sadness and tears to many a hearthstone; but the voice of the
boys in blue now rolling from the tented field is positive. Shivering around
the camp fires they say we will give the lie to modern democracy; we will show
them that we are not tired of this "abolition war,” that we will not leave
the field while one hostile foe assails the flag.
“The mustering
officer!”—“The mustering officer!" is now the universal cry. Colonel, can
you not toll him out here? some one asks; "you know, Colonel, that he
always goes where they have the best and the most for the 'neck'" utters
one. But we will be compelled to wait his pleasure, for the colonel, as it
happens, don't work with men in that style.
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