Spring was far advanced in that
Southern region, and foliage and grass were already rich and heavy.
Dick, from his dozing position beside a camp fire, saw a great mass of
tall grass and green bushes beyond which lay the deep waters of a still
creek or bayou. The air, although thick and close, conduced to rest and
the peace that reigned after the battle was soothing to his soul.
His friends, the two lads, who were knitted to him by so many hardships
and dangers shared, were sound asleep, and he could see their tanned
faces when the light of the flickering fires fell upon them. Good old
Warner! Good old Pennington! The comradeship of war knitted youth
together with ties that never could be broken.
He moved into an easier position. He lay upon the soft turf and he had
doubled his blanket under his head as a pillow. At first the droning
noises of camp or preparation had come from afar, but soon they ceased
and now the frogs down by the sluggish waters began to croak.
It was a musical sound, one that he had heard often in his native state,
and, singularly enough, the lad drew encouragement from it.
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