The troops still continue foraging, and in consequence the country has well nigh become impoverished, almost everything in the line of subsistence having been confiscated. But occasionally a hog, goose, or chicken ventures from some hiding place and falls a prey to the “inveterate Yankees." Good news! the P. M. informs us that the train has brought the mail. At last it is distributed, and how eagerly the soldiers peruse the little white sheets. Could our friends but know how much good a letter does a soldier, they would drift to him "like dew-drops from heaven”—that is, letters of cheering words. They make us better soldiers too. We get the blues sometimes, and feel like going to the dogs. Perhaps we are worn out with duty, are all wet and muddy and the wind changes right into our eyes; and then the coffee is bad; and the crackers are worse, and all this when we are as hungry as wolves. But the mail-boy comes, and hands us a letter—a good long letter from home, or some one else, we won't say who—we are not tired now; the fire has ceased smoking; the coffee is pronounced good; the old musty crackers are decidedly better, and everything glides on smoothly with us.
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