Often, in the after months of our sojourn, we contrasted our fare at Beltville with the hard tack and coffee, and, unseasoned as it was with luxuries, it seemed delicious indeed.
One by one our men died—no friends around them, only some soldier comrade, so low in fever and delirium as to be half unconscious also. My work was hard;—many a night I went to bed but not to sleep;—my pillow was coarse straw, and every motion which I made in my restlessness, rattled its contents, and sent up new bristling stems to thrust them into my head and face.
At our next door—my old boarding place, they still kept the howling brindle pup, and one day as I dropped in for a moment, I chanced upon the final scene of its brief career. Our steward had given him a dose of something effective, and as his master was playing roughly with him, calling him into his lap to show his sprightliness, he leaped into the air—shuddered, and fell dead. I shed no tears over his untimely demise.
Our Chaplain made us a visit, bringing a trunk of Hospital clothing from the ladies of Binghamton, some fruit from Sanitary at Washington, and a firkin of butter from Owego. The last was a seasonable gift,—now we could butter the toast for our convalescing men, while before we were obliged to use salt and water, sometimes seasoned with a spoonful of milk.
The clothing enabled us to change the fever-saturated garments of our patients, and the fruit cooled
