Steward Bennett has just come down from the front, detached from our regiment for hospital-duty, and reports our men all well, and for that I am thankful indeed. If the war is going to last forever, I wish they would be in some place where I might be nearer them, but it is impossible. We have Grant at the head of this army, and they don't go into any
camps now.
The wind blows almost a perfect gale, and my tent sways back and fro like a man drunken with wine; but I am used to that, and if it goes over I shall be here to see.
After my rounds—and I sit here, lonely, and hardly knowing what to do with myself to pass the time away. This is a dreadful state of things, when the next sound which comes to our ears may be the reopening of active hostilities, and then—horror of horrors—there will be no time for loneliness, or lonely thought.
