some one. Hyattsville, Beltville, and Laurel they passed cheering lustily, but at Annapolis Junction no cheers went out—only the thud of the stones bounding against the houses, and then I knew it was for some insult long ago rendered—never forgotten or forgiven while they had faced death on the battle-fields of Virginia.
We had some sick, and some from different regiments on board—some three hundred were crowded on, without rations, and they grew ravenous as the day wore on, and hunger gnawed at their vitals. The cars moved slowly as we passed through loyal Pennsylvania, which had not forgotten the sound of rebel artillery, and the tread of hostile feet.
The boys would get off, while the women met them half-way with loaves of bread, and pies, and cake, and anything which was at hand, and it was all devoured as a hungry dog devours a bone—then waits for more.
At Williamsport, in one door-way, stood an old wrinkled woman, dancing for joy to see us on our homeward way. Many looked at us with tearful eyes, remembering those whom they should not welcome back even though the cruel war was over.
My heart was sore for them, and could hardly be glad with its burden of sad thoughts. We passed one town where the young ladies of a seminary, all dressed in pure white, came to the car-track, holding the stars and stripes—cheering us on our way.
We arrived tired and hungry at Elmira on the morning of June fourteenth, and were soon met by
