is to be encamped in our neighborhood for several weeks.
Their business is to gather up and take care of broken-down horses, so as to fit them for use again in baggage trains and the like.
At the postoffice a letter was given me, which I opened and read, thinking it was for me. It began Dear Ideal and was signed Yours forever.
I thought at first that Capt. Hobbs or Albert Bacon was playing a joke on me, but on making inquiry at the office, I learned that there is a cracker girl named Fanny Andrews living down somewhere near Gum Pond, for whom, no doubt, the letter was intended; so I remailed it to her.
As we were sitting in the parlor after supper, there was another lumbering noise of heavy feet on the front steps, but it was caused by a very different sort of visitor from the one we had Sunday night. A poor, cadaverous fellow came limping into the room, and said he was a wounded soldier, looking for work as an overseer.
He gave his name as Etheridge, and I suspect, from his