John D. Billings, The history of the Tenth Massachusetts battery of light artillery in the war of the rebellion

[56] of snow-white hair. His loosely hung frame totters somewhat on his misshapen legs, whose strength is eked out by a stout cane. His features express that odd mixture, so common to his class, of profound ignorance, fatherly benevolence, and patronizing interest, which old age seems to confer. On one arm he bears with difficulty a large basket.

‘Good morning, uncle Walter! How do you do?’ is the kindly greeting on all sides, showing him to be no stranger; and a half-dozen hands are stretched out to relieve him of his load, and lead him to the best stool in the tent.

‘What have you to sell this morning, uncle?’

‘Wal, I brought you ober a few biscuits, gemlum.’

He removes the clean white napkin, and reveals his really tempting supply, still fresh and warm from the oven. They are evidently the work of a skilful hand.

‘Why, uncle, how is it you always have so much better biscuits than any one else?’

‘Wal, I reckon de ole woman knows how to make 'em good, and I tells her not to cheat de boys, but to gib 'em good measure; dey're hungry and need it.’

After buying a plentiful supply of the biscuits we allow him to go and peddle his wares through the camp, knowing that in every tent he will receive a warm welcome, and finally depart with an empty basket and heavier purse.

As February advanced the weather became still more inclement, confining us quite closely to the tents, and enforcing an amount of leisure that gave opportunity for an abundance of grumbling—that time-honored prerogative of the soldier.

February 22d, we turned out in a driving snowstorm, that would have done New England credit,