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Atlanta, capital of
Georgia, is rising from the dust in which
Sherman's too famous march from
Chattanooga left her — a sacrifice of war-when the fair young city, not yet seventeen years old, perished in her youth; wasted so fiercely that her waters seemed to be on fire; so thoroughly that a rosebush here and there was all that told of former opulence and present wreck.
Atlanta, rising from her ashes, is a type of
Georgia.
Standing on a hill, the domes and turrets of
Atlanta, shining over belts of ash and pine, endow her with a regal air. A natural crown of the adjacent flats, she looks the capital which a proud and grateful people have made her since the great calamity she suffered in the civil war. Her soil is rich and ruddy, with the wealth and colour of a Devonshire ridge.
Wide fields and pastures lie