Whitcomb is a judge, sedate and wise, with spectacles balanced on the bridge of that remarkable nose which, in former days, was so plentifully sprinkled with freckles that the boys christened him Pepper Whitcomb.

Just to think of little Pepper Whitcomb being a judge! What would he do to me now, I wonder, if I were to sing out "Pepper!" some day in court?
Fred Langdon is in California, in the native-wine business--he used to make the best licorice-water I ever tasted! Binny Wallace sleeps in the Old South Burying-Ground; and Jack Harris, too, is dead--Harris, who commanded us boys, of old, in the famous snow-ball battles of Slatter's Hill.

Was it yesterday I saw him at the head of his regiment on its way to join the shattered Army of the Potomac?
Not yesterday, but six years ago.

It was at the battle of the Seven Pines.

Gallant Jack Harris, that never drew rein until he had dashed into the Rebel battery! So they found him--lying across the enemy's guns.
How we have parted, and wandered, and married, and died! I wonder what has become of all the boys who went to the Temple Grammar School at Rivermouth when I was a youngster?
"All, all are gone, the old familiar faces!" It is with no ungentle hand I summon them back, for a moment, from that Past which has closed upon them and upon me.