Clear, dry,
and hot.
A dispatch from Gen.
Lee (I have not seen it yet) says, in the repulse of the enemy's assault on the
breach made by their mine, we captured over 800 prisoners—a general and his
staff among them—some 12 stands of colors, and killed some 500. Our loss very light.
The enemy has mostly
countermarched from this side of the river, followed, of course, by our army at
double-quick, and rumor says there are little or no forces of either party on
the north side of the James this morning.
This was probably
Grant's grand stratagem for our destruction, and it has failed disastrously for
him. What will he do next? No matter what, Lee is the master of the situation.
My daughter's large
pet cat died last night under the cherry-tree, and was buried this morning
under a rose-bush. I sympathize with Fannie in the grief natural on such an
occasion; but really, the death of the cat in such times as these is a great
relief to me, as he was maintained at the cost of not less than $200 per annum.
His death was probably occasioned by a surfeit of meat which his mistress
obtained unexpectedly, seeing it fall in the street, and sending a servant for
it.
This morning a large
fat chicken was found in my yard, picked and prepared for cooking, brought
hither by a cat which had stolen it from some kitchen. A portion of the breast
only had been eaten, and our cook seized upon the remains for her own benefit.
To such straits are we reduced by this cruel war!
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