knife went into the turkey, 'twas I that got the tit-bits and the
oyster. And all was right with the world _then_, I can tell you!

We have ridden together over old battlefields, and I have worn the
epaulettes and the swords in the attic, and listened to tales of the
great brother who died of the war, and whose bull-terrier Jerry chased
the cannon-balls at Gettysburg. Oh, the cutlass captured from the
Confederate ram, and the wooden canteen, and the Confederate money (in a
frame)! I was the hunter that used to handle the Colt (with the ships
engraved on the cylinder) that shot the buffalo from the rear platform
of the train, and was stolen by a genuine thief. Is Jeff Davis's bible
that he gave to the brother who with Major R. caused game chickens to
fight for the edification of his captivity still in your upper
bureau drawer?

Are the photographs that General Gilmore had taken of Charleston siege
still in the bookcase with the glass doors? Or have they vanished like
the child's footprint that I made for you when we were planting the--the
"plant," and I was going away?

Time has passed. _Grand_ nephews are as young and hopeful as nephews used
to be. _I_ have written innumerable miserable grovelling tales. I
dedicate this one to you; despairing at last of writing that masterpiece
which should have been worthy of you.

But tell me this: Is there still a little corner of your heart that I
may call mine? a corner into which no one else is allowed to
put--yes--to put _foot_? Oh, but I should be glad to know that!

G.M.