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Weary War with the bated breath, Skeleton boy against skeleton Deatb, Months of torture, how many such ! Weary weeks of the stick and crutch ! Still a glint in the steel-blue eye, Spoke of the spirit that wouldn't die.
And didn't! nay more ! in death's despite. The crippled skeleton learned to write ! " Dear mother," at first, of course, and then, "Dear Captain" inquiring1 about the "men," Captain's answeró" Of eighty and five, Giffin and I are left alive!"
"Johnston's pressed at the front, they say!"
Little Giffin was up and awaj7.
A tear, his first, as he bade good-bye,
Dimmed the glint of his steel-blue eye;
" I'll write, if spared." There was news of a fight,
But none of Giffin ! he did not write !
I sometimes fancy that were I a king Of the princely knights of the Golden Ring, With the song of the minstrel in mine ear, And the tender legend that trembles here, I'd give the best on his bended knee, The whitest soul of my chivalry, For little Giffin of Tennessee!