In the army one is perhaps roused after a bivouac, marches before daybreak, halts, fights, somebody is killed, a long day's life has been lived, and after all it is not seven o'clock, and breakfast is not ready.

So when we had lived in summer so long as hardly to remember winter, it suddenly occurred to us that it was not yet June.
One escapes at the South that mixture of hunger and avarice which is felt in the Northern summer, counting each hour's joy with the sad consciousness that an hour is gone.

The compensating loss is in missing those soft, sweet, liquid sensations of the Northern spring, that burst of life and joy, those days of heaven that even April brings; and this absence of childhood in the year creates a feeling of hardness in the season, like that I have suggested in the melody of the Southern birds.

It seemed to me also that the woods had not those pure, clean, _innocent_ odors which so abound in the New England forest in early spring; but there was something luscious, voluptuous, almost oppressively fragrant about the magnolias, as if they belonged not to Hebe, but to Magdalen.
Such immense and lustrous butterflies I had never seen but in dreams; and not even dreams had prepared me for sand-flies.

Almost too small to be seen, they inflicted a bite which appeared larger than themselves,--a positive wound, more torturing than that of a mosquito, and leaving more annoyance behind.