wore on. Many a fanciful armament was fashioned by those deft fingers, when the owner lay thinking of the craft which he had followed, and strove to wear away the tedium of the monotonous life in the hospital.
I had many a token given to me—images moulded of the clay which was upheaved when the great mine was sprung at Petersburg,—and of other earth made historic by the blood of the brave men spilt upon it—little ornaments carved of beef bones, polished till they were like ivory in whiteness and beauty.
One chain was given me, each link composed of some carpenter's implement—axe, saw, file, everything in fact—but some covetous hand stole it away, and it lies a confiscated relic in some treasure trove. I wish it were in mine.
In work like this, in reading and silent thought, the men passed the days, and the winter months wore off with no great incidents to mark them in my calendar.
February drew near, and came at last, with the promise of a speedy going. As I look over the diary kept at that time, and remember the little white sheltering-tent under whose brooding it was written, I think the record of the few weeks inscribed within it will tell best what feelings urged us, and how we longed for home and home comforts to be given to all that sick and suffering throng.
