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Thomas Wentworth Higginson, Army Life in a Black Regiment, chapter 2 (search)
en almost anything else, I verily believe, at that moment of high tide. It was shouted across by the pickets above,--a way in which we often receive news, but not always trustworthy. January 3, 1863. Once, and once only, thus far, the water has frozen in my tent; and the next morning showed a dense white frost outside. We have still mocking-birds and crickets and rosebuds, and occasional noonday baths in the river, though the butterflies have vanished, as I remember to have observed in Fayal, after December. I have been here nearly six weeks without a rainy day; one or two slight showers there have been, once interrupting a drill, but never dress-parade. For climate, by day, we might be among the isles of Greece,--though it may be my constant familiarity with the names of her sages which suggests that impression. For instance, a voice just now called, near my tent,--Cato, whar's Plato? The men have somehow got the impression that it is essential to the validity of a marria