is over—the church-yard under the shadow of our native hills.
It was a rare treat to see a little white baby, ebony ones had been in plenty—but a little white baby, with twining flaxen hair, and laughing blue eyes, and rosy mouth, was a rare treat for us. Its dimpled hands wandering over the bronzed faces of the soldiers, made many a one think, with tears almost up to his eyes, of nameless little ones so far away, as I carried the pretty fatherless child from tent to tent.
Many an eye moistened as I told the story of its father's death, and many a one thought of the sweet darlings, from the lumpy baby of two months to two years, who might soon, alas! be fatherless like that tender one.
I saw the widow take the child to her bosom, and thought how it would grow to full stature, and never know, only as an old story, of the journey to the hospital, where the sight of its father's dead face was the only consolation to the bereaved mother.
So many sick and wounded were crowded into the tents, and the transports taking away fewer than arrived, we were obliged to shelter them as we could, and my small house was given to five men, Lieut. Austin of our regiment, his brother, Private Strong, and two soldiers from Western regiments, while we women all went into one tent to sleep.
Chaplain Washburn took us in his way to join the regiment, and was very kind in his efforts to assist us. Erin Van Kirk, of the One Hundred and Ninth, was very sick at the time, and my hands were filled with
