The dull, gray, leaden sky was as sharp a contrast with the crisp, bracing sharpness of a Northern Christmas morning, as our beggarly little ration of saltless corn meal was to the sumptuous cheer that loaded the dinner-tables of our Northern homes.
We turned out languidly in the morning to roll-call, endured silently the raving abuse of the cowardly brute Barrett, hung stupidly over the flickering little fires, until the gates opened to admit the rations.
For an hour there was bustle and animation.

All stood around and counted each sack of meal, to get an idea of the rations we were likely to receive.
This was a daily custom.

The number intended for the day's issue were all brought in and piled up in the street.

Then there was a division of the sacks to the thousands, the Sergeant of each being called up in turn, and allowed to pick out and carry away one, until all were taken.

When we entered the prison each thousand received, on an average, ten or eleven sacks a day.