The Gilded Roll. (Ragweed and Fennel)

Nosing around in an old box -- packed away, and lost to memory for / years -- an hour ago I found a musty package of gilt paper, or rather, a / roll it was, with the green-tarnished gold of the old sheet for the / outer wrapper. I picked it up mechanically to toss it into some / obscure corner, when, carelessly lifting it by one end, a child's tin / whistle dropped therefrom and fell tinkling on the attic floor. It / lies before me on my writing table now -- and so, too, does the roll / entire, though now a roll no longer, -- for my eager fingers have / unrolled the gilded covering, and all its precious contents are spread / out beneath my hungry eyes.

Here is a scroll of ink-written music. I don't read music, but I know / the dash and swing of the pen that rained it on the page. Here is a / letter, with the self-same impulse and abandon in every syllable; and / its melody -- however sweet the other -- is far more sweet to me. And here / are other letters like it -- three -- five -- and seven, at least. Bob wrote / them from the front, and Billy kept them for me when I went to join / him. Dear boy! Dear boy!