letters which their anxious souls knew might be too late for the dear eyes; that, even while they were being penned, the soldier's comrades might be heaping the sod over the cold bosom, on which the death-wound lay gaping.
I read and write, and then try to sleep, but those mice—in desperation I take my sword, (O yes, I have a sword; I may some time tell when I got it—not now,) and, with strong intent to kill, I rush upon the nimble-footed little torments, but I only elicit a faint squeal, and they hide beyond my reach, ready for a foray on me again when I get quiet.
I am tired of noise; tired of the tongues which talk, talk, talk at the supper-table; tired of having my house invaded at all hours of the day and evening; tired of the Virginia mud; tired of trying to be happy, and tired of everything. I see the same old camp—the tents, the barracks; the same figures clad in everlasting blue. Sometimes it is a relief to see a new face peeping from under the regulation-cap; but I wish Gen. Lee would surrender, and I could go home and get over being tired.
A summery day, with air, and sun, and wind cheating us till we seem to be within another clime. I thought I would wash and iron to-day, it being Monday; and I have returned to my tent, tired and hungry, but the kind of tired which a sound sleep rests, and the hunger which a bountiful dinner, supplied by our cooks, entirely appeased.
