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and the other reprobates?
Wait till distance blinds you to the faults, and exalts the virtues, of your friends, and you love them with a love the more absorbing and complete because it finds no response in daily life, and because it is all your inner and real life.
Then, my dear, you won't call me a truculent border ruffian.
Pshaw! what nonsense for me to write this stuff for you to laugh at!
I love my friends, and that you know full well, that gave me leave or (if I might correct Shakespeare) provoked me to speak of it.
Bloomington, Mo., December 16, 1858.
I have returned from a scouting expedition after game, cold, angry, and generally ill-humored.
A Merry Christmas to you all at home there.
I send you a song which we shall sing to the tune of Benny Haven's, Oh!
at our Christmas supper. Our fires are blazing cheerily, Our loaded tables groan, The wine is circling merrily Among us here alone. But our thoughts are wandering sadly To the days of long ago,— To th