November 23d, 1864.
It is very cold today. The wind changed to the west last night, with a snap to it, which reminded me, oh, so vividly, of home. Many is the time my wife and I have sat, side by side, and listened to the furious blast as it raged harmlessly outside, and I wondered if my loved one was now, alone and trembling, passing through a similar experience.
The sun shines brightly, but fails to warm the frozen earth. When I awoke this morning I heard the heavy army wagons thundering over the frozen earth.
Tomorrow is Thanksgiving. Already the “good things” donated by the generous people of the North begin to arrive. My tent mates and I have been getting a supply of wood today. It is becoming scarce and hard to get. By bringing it a mile, in our arms, we have accumulated a quarter of a cord of good oak wood, which will last nearly a week.
I must now stop writing and draw our company ration of soft bread, which is issued twice a week. We also get mackerel once a week, codfish once, with now and then one potato and one onion per man.
