The Gilded Roll by James Whitcomb Riley — Read

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 selfsame 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!