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Dawn came at last with a gray and murky sky, and an atmosphere filled with mist in which there seemed no promise of relenting; yet neither the leaden sky, nor the mist-drenched air dampened our spirits in the least, and we started on our morning journey with the lines of Riley ringing in our memory: "There is ever a song somewhere, my dear, There is ever a song somewhere, There's the song of the lark when the skies are clear And the song of the thrush when the skies are gray."
Tyler's division was over there, it knew. When would firing begin along this line? When would the brigade have orders to move, when would it cross, when would things begin to happen? An hour passed. Ranks were broken and the men allowed to cook and eat a hasty breakfast. How good, in the mist-drenched wood, tasted the scalding coffee, how good the cornbread and the bacon!
One evening, on entering the city, Nature seemed to be planning to run the gaily attired tourists from the place. How sombre and sullen appeared the sea, seen through the dim perspective of the murky, mist-drenched air. Over this vast expanse, low-hung clouds trailed their gray tattered edges in long misty streaks which hid the setting sun.
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