THE LITTLE BROWN CURL.
A MEMORY OF MY OLD FRIEND, DR. JOHN R. HICKS OF VICKSBURG.
A quaint old box with a lid of blue, All faded and worn with age,A soft little curl of a brownish hue, A yellow and half-written page.
The letters, with never a pause nor dot, In a school-boy's hand are cast;The lines and the curl I may hold to-day, But the love of the boy is past.
It faded away with our childish dreams, Dying out like the morning mist;And I look with a smile on the silken curl That once I have tenderly kissed.
One night in the summer so long ago We played by the parlor door,And the moonlight fell like a silver veil Spreading itself on the floor.
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