ished an occasion for the
patients to amuse themselves in writing articles in prose or verse.

A complete photographic establishment appeared in one corner of the
hospital grounds at this time, and became the resort of hundreds of
officers and men in their leisure hours of convalescence. The instrument
was used in taking pictures of uncommon cases in surgery, and in
faithfully delineating the spectral features of the returned prisoners.

The month of June found our hospital comparatively deserted: all the men
who were able had left for their regiments, and all but two or three
prisoners had gone to Camp Parole to await exchange, or had been laid
beneath the sods of Maryland. In the wards were to be found patients who
had been there for months, prostrated either by chronic illness or
stubborn wounds,--mere human wrecks, bones and breath alone remaining of
once rugged frames and constitutions.

Gently the balmy summer breezes creep into the tent wards, laden with
the rich fragrance of roses, violets, and jasmine, offering their mute
sympathy to those who shall never more walk forth to behold them growing
in luxuriant beauty. William Miller, a boy of fifteen, is one of these.
He is an orphan, and was the pet of fond grandparents, who consented to
let him join the Union army to escape Rebel conscription. He is a mere
child; his dark, deep, expressive eyes, shaded by long, drooping lashes,
light up with happiness his face of marble paleness, as he receives the
comforts of life and the kindness of friends once more, after long
months of homesickness and starvation. His spirit is buoyant with the
anticipation of seeing his native State of Tennessee entirely rescued
from the destroying hand of treason, and he is proud of having suffered
for the flag of freedom. But at times those bright eyes are clouded; not
that he for one moment regrets his experiences, bitter as they have
been, in contrast with the doting care in which he was reared; yet he
talks a good deal about that little home in the far-off mountains, and
it is easy to discern that the tidings which cannot come from those he
so dearly loves there would bring him great happiness. He is too manly
in his patriotism, however, to give way to these restless longings, and
stifles the secret unquiet of his heart by a bravely forced
cheerfulness. The doctor is sure that he cannot live much longer, and
thinks best that he should be told. It is a painful duty thus to blight
all