XXXIX
YOU never saw a lovelier day than this—clear as a whistle, with breeze enough to set the whitecaps running on the river. In the forenoon I went down to our battery, near the river, just for the walk. One of the lookout pickets I passed on the bluff had a powerful spy-glass, through which I got a good view of the rebel fort on Shipping Point. Down by the battery I picked up an Indian arrow head. Some contrast between this stone weapon of a dead and gone race and those long 32-pounders close by.
I see a good many old Manchester acquaintances here who drop down sight-seeing. Kimball the shoe man, John B. Chase the tanner, and Cy. Mason, Washington agent for the Associated Press, were here day before yesterday; and yesterday Dr. Hawkes came down.
Would you like a picture of myself and my surroundings right at this moment? Well, here it is. See me sitting in front of a cheerful wood fire, my boots off, and your gorgeous smoking cap on my head. By my side, a cup of steaming hot cocoa, a cookie and a quarter of mince pie. Slade is at my right, writing, and similarly provided for in the eatable line. Just at this moment he is digging down into his box hunting for a big lump of candy that came to him from home.
We had chickens, from New Hampshire, for supper. I am getting to be an expert, myself, in certain branches of cookery. I can toss and turn fritters now, without dropping them in the ashes. Can you? Our “oven” is very simple, but it does its work to perfection. We set a deep iron pan on a bed of coals. In this, four or five little rocks as supports for the plate carrying the dough. The whole covered with another iron pan filled with coals. The biscuits and plum cake we turn out cannot be beat anywhere by anybody.