All at the "Bower," loved Stuart; they love him to-day; and will love
him always.
His tents were pitched on a grassy knoll in the extensive grounds,
beneath some ancient oaks resembling those seen in English parks. It
was a charming spot. Through the openings in the summer foliage you saw
the old walls of the hall. At the foot of the hill, the Opequon stole
away, around the base of a fir-clad precipice, its right bank lined
with immense white-armed sycamores. Beyond, extended a range of hills:
and in the far west, the North Mountain mingled its azure billows with
the blue of the summer sky.
Such was the beautiful landscape which greeted our eyes: such the spot
to which the winds of war had wafted us. Good old "Bower," and good
days there! How well I remember you! After the long, hard march, and
the incessant fighting, it was charming to settle down for a brief
space in this paradise--to listen idly to the murmur of the Opequon, or
the voice of the summer winds amid the foliage of the century oaks!
The great tree on the grassy knoll, under which Stuart erected his own
tent, is called "Stuart's Oak" to this day. No axe will ever harm it, I
hope; gold could not purchase it; for tender hearts cherish the gnarled
trunk and huge boughs, as a souvenir of the great soldier whom it
sheltered in that summer of 1863.
Pages:
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
129
130
131
132
133