The trees and shrubbery around were as naked and forlorn as in the North in the days of early Winter before the snow comes.
Over and around us hung like a cold miasma the sickening odor peculiar to Southern forests in Winter time.
Out of the naked, repelling, unlovely earth rose the Stockade, in hideous ugliness.

At the gate the two men continued at their monotonous labor of tossing the dead of the previous day into the wagon-heaving into that rude hearse the inanimate remains that had once tempted gallant, manly hearts, glowing with patriotism and devotion to country--piling up listlessly and wearily, in a mass of nameless, emaciated corpses, fluttering with rags, and swarming with vermin, the pride, the joy of a hundred fair Northern homes, whose light had now gone out forever.
Around the prison walls shambled the guards, blanketed like Indians, and with faces and hearts of wolves.

Other Rebels--also clad in dingy butternut--slouched around lazily, crouched over diminutive fires, and talked idle gossip in the broadest of "nigger" dialect.

Officers swelled and strutted hither and thither, and negro servants loitered around, striving to spread the least amount of work over the greatest amount of time.
While I stood gazing in gloomy silence at the depressing surroundings Andrews, less speculative and more practical, saw a good-sized pine stump near by, which had so much of the earth washed away from it that it looked as if it could be readily pulled up.

We had had bitter experience in other prisons as to the value of wood, and Andrews reasoned that as we would be likely to have a repetition of this in the Stockade we were about to enter, we should make an effort to secure the stump.