ent was sorry for them, and resolved that Providence would be the
best doctor. The dead gave place to the dying by dozens, and there has
been high carnival down in the dead-yard. The quick succession of
funeral trains has cast a shade of melancholy over the broad road that
leads to it. Old women are vending pies and cakes at the gates, and
little boys are sporting over the newly-made graves, that the wind has
lashed into furrows. Rude coffins stand about in piles, and tipsy
negroes are making the very air jubilant with the songs they bury the
dead to.

A change has come over the scene now. There is no more singing down in
the dead-yard. A bright sun is shedding its cheerful rays over the broad
landscape, flowers deck the roadside, and the air comes balmy and
invigorating. There has been frost down in the lowlands. A solitary
stranger paces listlessly along the walks of the dead-yard, searching
in vain for the grave of a departed friend. The scourge has left a sad
void between friends living and friends gone to eternal rest. Familiar
faces pass us on the street, only to remind us of familiar faces passed
away forever. The city is astir again. Society is coming back to us.
There is bustle in the churches, bustle in the law courts, bustle in the
hotels, bustle along the streets, bustle everywhere. There is bustle at
the steamboat landings, bustle at the railway stations, bustle in all
our high places. Vehicles piled with trunks are hurrying along the
streets; groups of well-dressed negroes are waiting their master's
return at the landings, or searching among piles of trunks for the
family baggage. Other groups are giving Mas'r and Missus such a cordial
greeting. Society is out of an afternoon, on King street, airing its
dignity. There is Mr. Midshipman Button, in his best uniform, inviting
the admiration of the fair, and making such a bow to all distinguished
persons. Midshipman Button, as he is commonly called, has come home to
us, made known to us the pleasing fact that he is ready to command our
"navy" for us, whenever we build it for him. There is Major Longstring,
of the Infantry, as fine a man in his boots as woman would fancy, ready
to fight any foe; and corporal Quod, of the same regiment, ready to
shoulder his weapon and march at a moment. We have an immense admiration
for all these heroes, just now; it is only equalled by their admiration
of themselves. The buzzards, too, have assumed an unusual air of
importance