The festive holiday time had increased the usually present disease, until home-sickness was the all-pervading complaint. As the picket peered through the gloomy air under the dull, wintry sky, he saw, in his mind’s eye, the dear ones at home, gathered about the yule-log. The sentry’s thoughts were far away, as he challenged the approaching guard, that brought relief, but gave none save in name, and received the sharp replies, so different from the words of good cheer properly incident to the time. The men gathered about the camp fires during the evening hours with abortive attempts at merriment, soon to be given up, and then to talk in whispers of friends and family and home. The bugle calls, holding out the promise that balmy sleep might bring forgetfulness, were welcomed; although tattoo seemed a wail, and lights-out a sob. The restless quiet of a great military camp comes at last. A nest of sleeping souls, it heaves with sound. The sentinels look like stalking ghosts. After midnight the dreaming sleepers are disturbed by the clank of the sabre of the orderly, seeking the headquarters of regiments to deliver an important order. Be quick! Light the candle stuck in the bayonet shank at the head of the ground bed where lies the regimental commander. Ah! Here is a Christmas gift with a vengeance! Read! “You will place your command in readiness to march at daylight. Move very light--three days’ rations in haversacks and two days’ in wagons. Forty rounds of ammunition on each man, with all the reserve ammunition in wagons. Take no tents and no baggage.” A battle order! Up and be stirring, for there is much to be done before daylight. Sleepers are aroused, their dreams of home and its festivities rudely disturbed, tents are struck and rolled, and, with the baggage and surplus stores packed into wagons to be sent within the earth-works of Nashville. Reveille finds the Army of the Cumberland, nearly fifty thousand strong, on the march to attack the Confederates under Bragg at Murfreesborough, thirty miles away. No holiday march this, I assure you. The enemy is alert. He harasses our front with artillery, attacks our flanks with infantry and harries our rear with cavalry. The elements seem in league with him, for snow, sleet and rain make heavy roads, at which men swear and in which wagons and artillery flounder and stall. Four days of skirmishing and hard marching, with four nights of unrest and chilly misery bring us to our objective--the enemy. He has selected his battle ground on the bank of Stone’s River, a swift stream, in places fordable.