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   of the wanton cruelty inflicted upon us in that stockade pen on Morris Island, while under the fire of our own guns, and while we were on those starvation rations following our removal from Morris Island to Fort Pulaski and Hilton Head. I will aid you all I can.

How I would love to see you, dear old Murray. You were always bright, never faltering, never bemoaning that the fates had cast us into that hell on earth. As I write I am wondering if time has made much change in you. Have the fates dealt out to you much sorrow, or given you much pleasure? You deserve well of the fates, and the love of your comrades of the Six Hundred. Generous, dear old fellow, come and see me here on the old farm (I call it the Rabbit Patch), come, that we may once more meet, that I can shake your hand and tell you my love for you has not grown less.

I can see you, dear old fellow, sitting on that stage in the mess hall at Fort Delaware. I can hear your voice as you sing "The Little Groceryman;" I see you dancing and singing "Old Bob Ridley," to help your sick comrades in the prison hospital.

My physical condition is not much, but my heart is as true, and my love as intense as ever for each one of that dear old Six