Nashville, Sunday, Jan. 1, 1865. New Year’s morning dawned bitter cold. I suffered terribly on guard last night. A heavy impenetrable mist, such as I have nowhere seen except in Nashville, enveloped the earth till 9 A. M. freezing in icy down upon everything. When I came off post I looked more like some ghostly spectre in white than a soldier in blue. Rations very short in camp, but we had a big New Year’s dinner of soft bread and butter, pies and Spring Green cake of Miss Spencer’s make. This evening I received a letter from my faithful brother John. He wrote in the midst of the festivities of a Christmas visit.
