Our pies Coleman and I made at night, and I cut out two hundred biscuit, thinking bread would eke out the supply, but we must have some of our home fixings, or it would not seem like Thanksgiving.
Our cooks, Stillman, West, Quick, and Georgie, prepared the vegetables, and Thanksgiving came.
Thanksgiving! How thought went back to our homes in the North, where the snow lay over the dead leaves, on the sear grain fields, and on the orchard paths, where the moss clung to the rocks and fences along the way. In the dear homes, by the warm fires they talked of us, who were so far away, and going on, no one knew how soon, into the valley of battlefields, some—ah many, never more to set foot upon those homeward paths, never more to cheer the loved ones who would wait their coming till the certainty of death broke the heart with its convulsive terror.
In the midst of so much preparation I could not indulge much sadness, and a box arriving to me from home, running over with just the things which I needed to crown the feast—cake and butter, and enough to go around withal, I felt a thankfulness which was in strict accordance with the day.
Our men had an excellent dinner. The table looked as homelike as we could make it by spreading sheets over it, and the new tin cups and plates, with the knives and forks, were laid neatly upon it.
We set the table for the officers in the steward's room, also spreading sheets thereon for a cloth, and the little handkerchiefs of cotton which the Binghamton ladies had sent for the use of our sick men, we
