ort their whereabouts and condition.

7. I was called upon late in the evening to make a report of the
operations of my brigade immediately, as General Rousseau intends to
leave for Louisville in the morning. It is impossible to collect the
information necessary in the short time allowed me. One of my regimental
commanders, Colonel Foreman, was killed; another, Colonel Humphrey, was
wounded, and is in hospital; another, Lieutenant-Colonel Shanklin, was
captured, and is absent; but I gathered up hastily what facts I could
obtain as to the casualties in the several regiments, and wrote my
report in the few minutes which remained for me to do so, and sent it
in. I have not had an opportunity to do justice either to my brigade or
myself.

13. Move in the direction of Columbia, on a reconnoitering expedition.
My brigade stops at Salem, and the cavalry pushes on.

14. Have been exposed to a drenching rain for thirty hours. The men are
cold, hungry, and mutinous.

15. Ordered back to Murfreesboro, and march thither in a storm of snow
and sleet. It is decidedly the coldest day we have experienced since
last winter.

I find two numbers of Harper's Weekly on my return. They abound in war
stories. The two heroes, of whom I read to-night, received saber cuts on
the face and head, obtained leave of absence, returned home, and married
forthwith. Saber cuts are very rare in the Army of the Cumberland, and
if young officers were compelled to defer entering into wedlock until
they got wounds of this kind, there would be precious few soldiers
married. Bullet wounds are common enough; but the hand-to-hand
encounters, knightly contests of swords, the cleaving of head-pieces and
shattering of spears, are not incidents of modern warfare.

The long rain has completely saturated the ground. The floor of my tent
is muddy; but my bed will be dry, and as I have not had my clothes off
for three days, I look forward to a comfortable night's rest.

The picture in Harper, of "Christmas Eve," will bring tears to the eyes
of many a poor fellow shivering over the camp-fire in this winter
season. The children in the crib, the stockings in which Santa Claus
deposits his treasures, recall the pleasantest night of the year.

Speaking of Christmas reminds me of the mistletoe bough. Mistletoe
abounds here. Old, leafless trees are covered and green with it. It was
in blossom a week or two ago, if we may call its white wax-like berries
blossoms. They a