Tazewell Tenn Dec 31.1863

five minutes before Midnight

 

Dear Ann & Arthur

A D. 1863 is expiring! Its pulse has almost ceased. Its breathings are feeble & gasping. Its record almost made Oh! the hopes of the past now buried!—Oh! the suffering and wails of the expiring year how terrible & intense! Oh! the record of physical war & moral desolation how wide spread! Oh! the remorse for the past & resolves for the future how full and yet insufficient!

 

                                    God pardon the past and give grace for the future Ah ha! ‘Tis done! The year has flown! Welcome! Welcome! New born year of 1864! I tremble as you take me on your wings and humbly pray for soft movings and safe moorings for me and mine! / A happy new year to you my dear wife and boy

 

Well I wish I were with you to night But I am here & it is well enough

 

            I hope Santa Clause will visit Arthur slyly slily and fill his boots so he cant get them on in the morning—If I could see him I would send along something with which to fill your boots to the top

 

            But you will all have a good time and I shall be glad of it

 

            I have had a little extra to night We of us in my room have had butter crackers & sardines of the sutler & a cigar smoke all for five dollars But the crackers tasted human & civilised & we dont have it every day & this too is well enough /

 

            I expect an opportunity to send this out in the morning. I only wanted to wish you a happy new year            I am well

 

                        Nothing new now. Dont know when we start for Ohio only know our time out is 6 weeks.

 

                                                                        All right Arthur

                                                                                                Papa

 

Keep writing to C. Gap

 

[separate sheet]

On Tazewells hills all oer its plain

In wintry wind and chilling rain

Our soldier boys in want and pain

All loyal stand. And ‘tis in vain

That many bleed; While many slain

Are wept in dirge of mournful strain

By mountain storm with sad refrain—

Who dont wish he was at home again?

                                    wonderful effusion!

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