The Negro Cabin in the Vale
The army had halted at noon for a little rest and dinner. Four of us, comrades, went into the woods in search of berries. Pushing along through the pines we came to a deep valley in which was a little clearing and a small log cabin. A tiny brook flowed down the vale, and the dark pine woods shut in a scene of beauty. It was the home of a negro family, who were all out in front, listening to the banjo played by one of our colored teamsters. He was a fat, oily, good natured fellow, black as ink. Seated on a stump with his eyes rolling in ecstacy and a broad grin showing his ivory teeth, he was an example of the happy, carefree contraband of those days. After listening awhile we passed on and after getting some blackberries we returned the same way. The family were seated at dinner and when we looked in, saw the white table cloth and the dishes, with the family and the banjo player seated around the table, eating, our mouths watered and we wished we could sit with them. Thoughts of home and of our friends, attheir tables in the distant north, filled our minds as we made our way back to the dusty turnpike and again took up the weary march. This scene was an oasis in our desert of dust, and its memory is pleasant.