elled to remember
the delightful ride thitherward, and to wonder if any other city in
the United States can boast of street-car routes so beautiful. The
visitor to "Camp Nichols," taking on Canal Street a car of the
Esplanade and Bayou Bridge line, is borne smoothly along for miles
under cool, green arches of oak-trees, a broad street on either side,
bordered by elegant residences and lovely, fragrant gardens.

Looking back, where the green arcade narrows away in the distance, or
forward, to observe how the rough track is made beautiful by the shadows
of dancing leaves and boughs,--glancing at the rapidly-succeeding
pictures of beauty and comfort on either side, inhaling the mingled
perfume of flowers,--one is placed under a spell of enchantment which
lasts until, at "Bayou Bridge," the end of the route is reached.
Leaving the car, a very short walk along the banks of the Bayou brings
the visitor to the "camp." Upon entering the gate the first thought is,
"How pleasant, how peaceful, how homelike." The comfortable-looking
house is beautifully shaded by large live-oaks. Under these green grass
is diversified by neatly-kept walks. Midway between the outer gate and
the house a small stream is spanned by a rustic bridge. As I stood upon
this bridge and saw, upon the pleasant galleries in front of their
rooms, the maimed and scarred veterans sitting in groups or apart,
tranquilly smoking and chatting or reading, the dying words of our
"Stonewall" Jackson came into my mind,--"Let us cross the river and
rest in the shade of the trees." To him was given eternal rest. The
weary spirit even then stood by the river of death and viewed beyond
the trees of paradise. Less happy these who remain to witness the
downfall of hope. Ah, what can be more glorious, yet more deeply
sorrowful, than the story of their past. The strength and beauty of
their youth and early manhood was freely given to the cause they deemed
sacred. It was, alas! lost; and, the tempest of war subsiding, left
upon a desolate shore these wrecks.

Returning after the war to find only ruined homes and shattered
fortunes, those who had retained health and strength found them taxed
to the utmost. Necessity held them in bonds of iron, and the demands
of helpless families absorbed them. All the same, manly hearts have
been often and painfully stirred by the silent appeals of maimed and
suffering comrades, and the faithful few have never ceased to hope and
strive for the