Dear Mother:
This blessed Sabbath night finds me seated by a dim candle light trying to drop you a few lines as father is going home in the morning. But it is not necessary for me to write much for he can tell you all that you would want to know in regard to matters and things here in camp. But before I forget it, and have you think me ungrateful I will thank you very kindly for the presents you sent me in the way of pies, sausage and tea cakes, all of which I relished. They tasted like mother had made them. I wish I had a jug full of ink like the vial full you sent, I could sell it for three or four dollars a quart. And to give an idea of the price of such things as eatables, I only have to tell you that it would have been an easy job to have sold the pies you sent me for 50 cents a piece. The gloves you sent fit fine, except the fingers were a little short. I believe this is all I need to say on paper for father can talk a good deal faster than I can write, so whatever you want to know just ask him. He can tell you what sort of a looking place it is. Sis, you wanted to know who drew the engine I sent. Wiley Grubb drew it. I have never tried to draw one, but believe I can. Tell Joey and Pual hello for Papa.   

Your affectionate son, 
Thomas W. Fisher 
 
 

COPYRIGHT© 1998 Dianne McGinley Gardner - All rights reserved.  Copies for personal use and research may be freely made.  Commercial use is prohibited without permission.