We could for a while forget the stench, the lice, the heat, the maggots, the dead and dying around us, the insulting malignance of our jailors; but it was, very hard work to banish thoughts and longings for food from our minds.  Hundreds became actually insane from brooding over it.  Crazy men could be found in all parts of the camp.  Numbers of them wandered around entirely naked.  Their babblings and maunderings about something to eat were painful to hear.  I have before mentioned the case of the Plymouth Pilgrim near me, whose insanity took the form of imagining that he was sitting at the table with his family, and who would go through the show of helping them to imaginary viands and delicacies.  The cravings for green food of those afflicted with the scurvy were, agonizing.  Large numbers of watermelons were brought to the prison, and sold to those who had the money to pay for them at from one to five dollars, greenbacks, apiece.  A boy who had means to buy a piece of these would be followed about while eating it by a crowd of perhaps twenty-five or thirty livid-gummed scorbutics, each imploring him for the rind when he was through with it.

We thought of food all day, and were visited with torturing dreams of it at night.  One of the pleasant recollections of my pre-military life was a banquet at the “Planter’s House,” St. Louis, at which I was a boyish guest.  It was, doubtless, an ordinary affair, as banquets go, but to me then, with all the keen appreciation of youth and first experience, it was a feast worthy of Lucullus.  But now this delightful reminiscence became a torment.  Hundreds of times I dreamed I was again at the “Planter’s.”  I saw the wide corridors, with their mosaic pavement; I entered the grand dining-room, keeping timidly near the friend to whose kindness I owed this wonderful favor; I saw again the mirror-lined walls, the evergreen decked ceilings, the festoons and mottos, the tables gleaming with cutglass and silver, the buffets with wines and fruits, the brigade of sleek, black, white-aproned waiters, headed by one who had presence enough for a major General.  Again I reveled in all the dainties and dishes on the bill-of-fare; calling for everything that I dared to, just to see what each was like, and to be able to say afterwards that I had partaken of it; all these bewildering delights of the first realization of what a boy has read and wondered much over, and longed for, would dance their rout and reel through my somnolent brain.  Then I would awake to find myself a half-naked, half-starved, vermin-eaten wretch, crouching in a hole in the ground, waiting for my keepers to fling me a chunk of corn bread.

Naturally the boys—­and especially the country boys and new prisoners —­talked much of victuals—­what they had had, and what they would have again, when they got out.  Take this as a sample of the conversation which might be heard in any group of boys, sitting together on the sand, killin lice and talking of exchange: