Buntyn Station, Sunday, Feb. 1. It is Sunday, but hard to realize it. The same routine is gone through as upon the other days, the cards shuffled with equal liveliness, the game of ball with the same noise. And I lay in my tent never realizing that this is the Sunday that I used to spend at home with such stillness, when the horses stayed in the stable unhitched, all work laid aside. Ah, well I remember the first Sunday spent in the army, how I used to recoil as I heard the boisterous oaths and reckless sport of the soldiers as they were returning to their comrades on that clear Sunday morning from Columbus to Corinth. It was just five months ago to-day, and am I really so much changed? Can it be that I am so much more vicious and wicked than then, that I heed not the Sabbath? God forbid. But what does company have to do? Almost everything. I flatter myself that it is not so very wicked. It cannot be.
In the evening I went to Griffith’s “shebang” and listened to sacred music. It sounded as of old. “I’m a Pilgrim”, “There is a Happy Land” etc. But a soldier is a soldier, and the “Dixie” and “Gay and Happy” were promiscuously mixed. Weather warm and sunny. Heard that the 2nd Wisconsin Cavalry were at Memphis.
