25th.—We had a great time to-day, having sent out this morning some six thousand troops, with about one hundred wagons, on a foraging expedition. This evening they returned, loaded with hay, oats, corn, cows, sheep, hogs, and one Irishman—all captured from the enemy. In this deserted and desolated country, where we have for weeks been enjoying (?) rural life without a sign of pig or poultry, without even those indispensable concomitants of civil life—the cries of babies, or the flapping in the wind of confidential garments from clothes lines in the back yard[1]—the sight of the woolly bleaters called back reminiscences of savory mutton and warm under-dresses, with whispered wishes for the time when we may return to the pleasures of civil life.
[1] A something whispers to me that if this should ever be read by housekeepers, it may call up unpleasant reminiscences of “ironing days.” I hope not.
