Dew sparkled in the grass of the lawn on which the shadows of trees
and shrubbery fell motionless. The air was balmy and sweet with the
fragrance of spring flowers. The mocking-birds were in full ecstatic
song, their notes scaling down from bursts of melody to the drollery
of all kinds of imitation. The wounded men on the far end of the
piazza were either sleeping or talking in low tones, proving that
there was no extremity of suffering. Off to the left, between them
and the negro quarters, were two or three fires, around which the
Union soldiers were reclining, some already asleep after the
fatigues of the day, others playing cards or spinning yarns, while
one, musically inclined, was evoking from a flute an air plaintive
and sweet in the distance. Further away under the trees, shadows in
shadow, the horses were dimly seen eating their provender. The
Confederate prisoners, smoking about a fire, appeared to be taking
the "horrors of captivity" very quietly and comfortably. At the
quarters they heard the sound of negro-singing, half barbaric in its
wildness.
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