February 25— To-day we heard the welcome sound of the exchange boat whistle again, and the joyful tidings stirred up the whole camp. Hope that had dipped and held its torch so long in the cloud of dismal gloom kindled a new flame, and its roseate light flashed and played sweetly over many a pallid cheek as the fingers of thought swept nimbly over the harp strings of freedom that had slept so long. Every man here expects that he may get out to-morrow.
Three Years in the Confederate Horse Artillery — George Michael Neese.
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