ilities, there was as much amusement and anticipation among them
as ever gladdened a nursery full of children. On the morning of this
happy festival every man found a sock hanging by his side stuffed with
mittens, scarfs, knives, suspenders, handkerchiefs, and many little
things. Out of the top of each sock peeped a little flag; and as the men
awoke, one by one, and examined the gifts of Santa Claus, shouts of
merriment rang through the wards, and they were satisfied that he was a
friend worth having.

All that was possible under the pressure of the melancholy circumstances
was done to make the day a happy one; but it was not celebrated with the
same rejoicings as the year before, nor was there much time to be spared
from the sick and dying. Steamers were constantly arriving, and filling
up the vacant places with new patients.

On a ragged, soiled piece of paper which a man handed me on landing were
these lines, written at Andersonville by a boy of sixteen who died
there. They are surely worthy of remembrance.

"Will you leave us here to die?
When our country called for men,
We came from forge and store and mill,
The broken ranks to fill;
We left our quiet, happy homes,
And ones we loved so well,
To vanquish all the Union foes,
Or fall where others fell.
Now, in prisons drear we languish,
And it is our constant cry,
O ye who yet can save us,
Will you leave us here to die?

"The voice of slander tells you
That our hearts were weak with fear,
That nearly every one of us
Was captured in the rear.
The scars upon our bodies
From the musket-ball and shell,
The missing legs and shattered arms
A truer tale will tell.
We have tried to do our duty
In the sight of God on high:
O ye who yet can save us,
Will you leave us here to die?

"There are hearts with hope still beating
In our pleasant Northern homes,
Waiting, watching for the footsteps
That may never, never come.
In Southern prisons pining,
Meagre, tattered, pale, and gaunt,
Growing weaker, weaker daily
From pinching cold and want.
Here brothers, sons, and husbands,
Poor and hopeless, captured lie:
O ye who yet can save them,
Will you leave us here to die?

"From out our prison gate,
There's a grave-yard close at hand,
Where lie ten thousand Union men
Beneath the Georgia sand.
Scores and s