Kingston, Monday, July 4. ‘Tis Independence Day but there is nothing unusual to remind us of it. Yet it is not forgotten. We remember with enthusiasm how gloriously it was spent one year ago in beholding our country’s enemy succumb to our Chieftain Grant, and we know the time will come when all traitors will meet a like fate. The train from the front tells us that Sherman’s headquarters are on the summit of Kenesaw Mountain. If true, good news enough. Hurrah for Sherman and our Union!
Went out grazing both forenoon and afternoon alone, three hours each time; while out picked blackberries. Brought in as many as mess could eat, very rich and nice. Camp policed by cannoneers, which makes it look very much better. It is a pleasant spot, high and airy, broad view before us.
It is dusk, everything is dreary and still, I write alone. Below is Kingston, wholly deserted, no sign of life except a few wandering soldiers. The band at Brigade headquarters has been playing “America” and is now giving “Home Sweet Home” in touching strains that go to the hearts of all the rough and quiet listeners. How did they spend to-day at home? Would that I could but have one glance. I feel that their uppermost thought is “Where is Jenkin to-night.” He too is thinking of you. It is well with him, but longs to hear from home. It is three weeks since the last mail reached him. The day is spent as all others are spent. He has nothing to read or amuse himself with here, and he will go to bed early to enjoy sweet slumbers and pleasant dreams.
