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Browsing named entities in Rebellion Record: a Diary of American Events: Poetry and Incidents., Volume 8. (ed. Frank Moore). You can also browse the collection for June or search for June in all documents.

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Rebellion Record: a Diary of American Events: Poetry and Incidents., Volume 8. (ed. Frank Moore), chapter 95 (search)
An anxious wife.--Literal copy of a letter received in the summer of 1863, at the Headquarters of General J. E. Johnston, Mississippi, addressed to him: to General Johnson Will you do me an favor — inquire of General Jackson for my husband P. N. Smith. he joind Balentins Caveldry last fall in Hatcha then Chalmens — then you sent him to Jackson Cavaldrey the twenty-forth of last June. you mind he cairn to you in Canten under A rest by order of Dr Baker in penoley (Panola) you sent him back to get his horse and give him A free pass. he brout me And my Boy — I was in Ward No 2 as matron under Dr right — if you can find aney thing pleas rite to me — my husband is none by Capt Brown--he rides A dark bay horse he cales stonewall Jackson — himself wares A green shirt with yelew braid on it — he has red hair small black hat tied by a string — I no that you will Laf at me. All right. I want to no And I no you will tell me all you no And do All you Can ye humble suvant Sa
Rebellion Record: a Diary of American Events: Poetry and Incidents., Volume 8. (ed. Frank Moore), chapter 112 (search)
gall to drink. He reads the wooing of the Spring, When, in the meadows wandering, He met the maid, her work begun, And found her fair to look upon. He reads the flitting of the May, That bore his maiden-bride away; And sighs, in mem'ry of the hour When first he trod her vacant bower, (Its slender pillars twined across With orange lichens and green moss,) And found her buds, no more subdued, Decking with bloom their solitude. He murmurs o'er the self-same tune Hie heard the south wind play in June, And finds some lingering of the haze That tangled in its misty maze The falling leaves and blossoms sweet, Beneath the Indian Summer's feet. “Oh! sweet as Love, but dearer far,” The old man sighs, “these memories are; But sadder still, with longing pain, For they may never come again! But one short June my life may know-- May see its roses blush and blow-- Its lilies whiten to the sky, And then in conscious splendor die; But with no dream of smiling hope, That when, o'er yonder snowy slope<