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ments which challenge the beholder's eye in our great cemeteries.

It is a pathetic fact that all through the war many men who might have recovered from the fevers and other ailments common to a soldier's life died because homesickness had quenched their power of resistance to disease. Indeed there were not a few deaths from homesickness pure and simple. It is not a disease recognized in official reports, but ask any army surgeon and he will probably tell you some surprisingly sad tales.

Fatal cases were, however, exceptional, though the ordinary malady was common enough. Sometimes its manifestations were serio-comic, as for instance in my own case. In the midst of our worst other discomforts, we were for a time compelled to subsist upon ancient hard-tack, which was often in such condition that, "if you called, it would come to you;" and one day I strolled off alone into the woods beyond the camp, and, sitting on a log, gave myself to meditation. I thought of my privations, not bitterly, but with a deliberate and curiously analytical wonder. I said to myself: "How much more a man can stand than he would have believed possible!" Then my thoughts wandered to my far-away home, with its simple luxuries and comforts, and that which came most vividly to mind was the fact that once-it seemed ages ago I had really had good, wholesome soft bread to eat every day, and three times a day at that! I then began to ask myself: "Would I ever again have soft bread every day?" "Was it possible that such happiness could be mine?" And I said to myself dolefully: "No! It is not likely. You are a soldier; you can henceforth have only soldier's fare; you will probably fill a soldier's grave. You will never taste soft bread again!"

Now this may seem absurd in the telling, yet God knows it was horribly real at the time.

But this was only a passing mood with the mass of us. We were a host of young men; life was too strong and elastic for even the depression which followed Fredericksburg to hold us down. We found ways to amuse ourselves.

One of the frequent but evanescent snowstorms of that semi-southern land had fallen, and snow-balling became a common sport. Finally an organized contest was proposed between our regiment and two others of the brigade. We were so much stronger in numbers than the older regiments that this apparently one-sided arrangement only equal

ized forces, and as an offset we were given the doubtful advantage of the defensive. Both sides were drawn up in rigid military array, with officers in their places of command. As for ourselves, we made piles of snow-balls and awaited the onset. It came like a whirlwind; those veterans had not been. through a dozen real battles for nothing, and as their line approached and the missiles began to fly, it was like a hailstorm. The snowballs were wet and hard, often icy; both sides were in hot earnest, and like the ancient Romans we aimed at the faces of our foes. I hardly know how it all looked, for I was in the thick of it and almost blinded, but I know how it felt. If the snow-balls had been bullets, I should have been riddled from head to foot.

We stood our ground manfully for a little while; but the too subtle strategy of our commander had divided our force, we were outnumbered at the critical point, and the superior discipline of our opponents prevailed. We had to confess ourselves beaten; and from the way our veteran friends crowed over us, I almost think they were tempted to inscribe that snow-ball victory on their battle flags.

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An even better antidote for the blues was the work which became necessary as the army went into winter quarters. There is no pleasanter occupation than home building, be it ever so rude, and we took much pains and found great enjoyment in the making and furnishing of our little houses. Some regiments whose location was near suitable timber built good-sized log huts; we were compelled to be more modest. The dwelling which my own group of four tent mates erected and occupied may serve as a fair example. Four pieces of shelter tent buttoned together made the roof, which covered a log structure twelve feet long and five or six feet wide. The log walls were about three feet high; but as the ground sloped away from the company street, we dug out the rear half of our hut, and there we had a little room in which we could stand erect. This served for our kitchen. The more elevated part was occupied by a broad bed of poles covered with dried grass and our blankets. This made a springy couch on which the four of us could sleep comfortably side by side; and the edge of the bed was just high enough to make a convenient seat with our feet resting on the kitchen floor. About the sides of the house were shelves and pegs for our belongings.

In the kitchen end, beside the door, we

built a fireplace and chimney. Now a wooden fireplace and chimney may seem ludicrously impractical, but that is what we and thousands of others actually built from green-pine sticks. But we fireproofed it with a coating of clay on the inside, and it answered its purpose perfectly. It "drew" finely, and gave us no end of solid comfort. Some of the chimneys did not work so well, and then the draught was increased by the precarious expedient of an empty, headless barrel placed on top. This generally served for a short time; but the barrel was pretty sure to take fire, and then there would be a grand excitement and much merriment over the frantic effort to extinguish the blaze.

Not the chimneys alone played tricks on the householders. Mischievous comrades have been known to drop a handful of cartridges down a chimney from the outside, with the result of a smothered explosion and a great scattering of ashes and embers over everything and everybody within.

The spirit of fun also found outlet in the adornment of the gables of our dwellings with various legends suggestive of the personal peculiarities of the inmates. For instance, of two queerly assorted tent mates, one had been a church sexton and a conspicuous functionary at village funerals; the other had worked in a silverware factory. Over their door some wag tacked a sign with the inscription:

DOWD AND GRIFFITH,
JEWELERS AND UNDERTAKERS.

As few of us were content with the wholesale work of the company cooks, we did most of our cooking ourselves, by our kitchen fires, and those of us who survived the war learned enough to make us useful to the women who were wise enough to choose us as husbands, though I fear the details of our housekeeping would have shocked them.

Many a pleasant evening we spent about our little fireplace. We talked about home, the girls we loved, religion, politics, literature, camp gossip, everything. Or we read, when we had books or papers from home, or wrote letters or our journals.

There was, however, little real privacy in those huts so close together, with their canvas roofs. Any loud talk could be heard from one to the other, and in the evening after retreat" the camp became a very babel of men singing, talking, laughing, swearing, telling stories; a chorus in one tent, a game of cards in another; in three or

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four at once loud discussions of the doings in the regiment or of the state of the country.

At nine o' clock" taps" sounded, and the officer of the day went the rounds to see that all lights were out. This was early bed-time in the long winter nights, and by various ruses we managed to conceal the glimmer of candles relighted after the officer had returned to the guard-house. The Bible and Shakespeare were responsible for some of these evasions of military regulations; quiet little games of cards for more of them.

Speaking of cards and Bibles brings up the image of the chaplain.

A friend in a regiment distinguished for its high discipline and its severe losses in many battles said to me one day: “A good chaplain makes a good regiment." Then, in illustration, he told me the story of their own chaplain, a man of fine culture, high social position, and great devotion to his calling. In his pastoral visits through the camp, if he surprised a group engaged in a little game of "bluff," he would quietly scoop up the stakes, put the money in his own pocket, and say: "Boys, this is for the hospital fund." Strange to say, the boys never murmured. The cheerful but shamefaced reply was always, "All right, chaplain.'

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I think no one will wonder who hears the rest of the story.

On the eve of battle, this chaplain took personal command of the stretcher-bearers, and when the combat was raging he would lead his little band of helpers into the thickest fire to succor the wounded. My friend told me: "I have known him to creep out between the opposing lines to bring off wounded men. The boys all knew that if they got into trouble, Chaplain H. would be there to help if this was in the power of mortal man. There were other chaplains of like spirit. Our own was not only untiring in his care for the sick and wounded in the hospitals, but always ready for any kindly service he could render to the members of the regiment or to their families at home. But it must be confessed that they were not all of this stamp. It was quite possible for the chaplain to be the most useless officer in a regiment.

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It could not be said of our regiment that we were like the men of Cromwell's model," yet we came from communities in which Puritanism was traditional, and in almost every company there were at least a few examples of strong Christian character.

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Religious men were apt to be more intense in the army than at home, and those who frequented the prayer-meetings in the tents or, in pleasant weather, under the trees, will never forget their atmosphere of warm and solemn earnestness.

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and gezerty count on them, but in times
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up when the postman, with mail bags slung
across his horse, came in sight. Then there
was impatient waiting until the letters for
the company came down from headquarters,
and an anxious crowd around the captain
as he called them off. The disappointment
of those who received none was often pitiful,
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are you sure? I know I ought to have one
this time."

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On the night before we stormed Maree's Hill, the moon shone through fleecy clouds and it was only partly dark. We lay in line of battle at rest, the most of using w sleep. Presently, out toward the fronte tween us and the skirmish ne. Top heard. The watchful major aBAT BELET "What is that? Who is an front?" One of the men avatar jor, it is only some of the vom LESTE prayer-meeting:" and the har en 12 instantly, in place of de feum and ve a feeling of deeg tannbes

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built a fireplace and chimney. Now a wooden fireplace and chimney may seem ludicrously impractical, but that is what we and thousands of others actually built from green-pine sticks. But we fireproofed it with a coating of clay on the inside, and it answered its purpose perfectly. It "drew" finely, and gave us no end of solid comfort. Some of the chimneys did not work so well, and then the draught was increased by the precarious expedient of an empty, headless barrel placed on top. This generally served for a short time; but the barrel was pretty sure to take fire, and then there would be a grand excitement and much merriment over the frantic effort to extinguish the blaze.

Not the chimneys alone played tricks on the householders. Mischievous comrades have been known to drop a handful of cartridges down a chimney from the outside, with the result of a smothered explosion and a great scattering of ashes and embers over everything and everybody within.

The spirit of fun also found outlet in the adornment of the gables of our dwellings with various legends suggestive of the personal peculiarities of the inmates. For instance, of two queerly assorted tent mates, one had been a church sexton and a conspicuous functionary at village funerals; the other had worked in a silverware factory. Over their door some wag tacked a sign with the inscription:

DOWD AND GRIFFITH,
JEWELERS AND UNDERTAKERS.

As few of us were content with the wholesale work of the company cooks, we did most of our cooking ourselves, by our kitchen fires, and those of us who survived the war learned enough to make us useful to the women who were wise enough to choose us as husbands, though I fear the details of our housekeeping would have shocked them.

Many a pleasant evening we spent about our little fireplace. We talked about home, the girls we loved, religion, politics, literature, camp gossip, everything. Or we read, when we had books or papers from home, or wrote letters or our journals.

There was, however, little real privacy in those huts so close together, with their canvas roofs. Any loud talk could be heard from one to the other, and in the evening after "retreat" the camp became a very babel of men singing, talking, laughing, swearing, telling stories; a chorus in one tent, a game of cards in another; in three or

four at once loud discussions of the doings in the regiment or of the state of the country.

At nine o' clock" taps" sounded, and the officer of the day went the rounds to see that all lights were out. This was early bed-time in the long winter nights, and by various ruses we managed to conceal the glimmer of candles relighted after the officer had returned to the guard-house. The Bible and Shakespeare were responsible for some of these evasions of military regulations; quiet little games of cards for more of them.

Speaking of cards and Bibles brings up the image of the chaplain.

A friend in a regiment distinguished for its high discipline and its severe losses in many battles said to me one day: “A good chaplain makes a good regiment." Then, in illustration, he told me the story of their own chaplain, a man of fine culture, high social position, and great devotion to his calling. În his pastoral visits through the camp, if he surprised a group engaged in a little game of "bluff," he would quietly scoop up the stakes, put the money in his own pocket, and say: "Boys, this is for the hospital fund." Strange to say, the boys never murmured. The cheerful but shamefaced reply was always, "All right, chaplain."

I think no one will wonder who hears the rest of the story.

On the eve of battle, this chaplain took personal command of the stretcher-bearers, and when the combat was raging he would lead his little band of helpers into the thickest fire to succor the wounded. My friend told me: "I have known him to creep out between the opposing lines to bring off wounded men. The boys all knew that if they got into trouble, Chaplain H. would be there to help if this was in the power of mortal man." There were other chaplains of like spirit. Our own was not only untiring in his care for the sick and wounded in the hospitals, but always ready for any kindly service he could render to the members of the regiment or to their families at home. But it must be confessed that they were not all of this stamp. It was quite possible for the chaplain to be the most useless officer in a regiment.

It could not be said of our regiment that we were like the men of Cromwell's "new model," yet we came from communities in which Puritanism was traditional, and in almost every company there were at least a few examples of strong Christian character.

The two sergeants in our own company who died in the service, one by sickness and the other in battle, were men of this sort, and one of the captains who fell in battle was a man whose Christian life was a benediction to the regiment.

But occasionally one met with what good people might consider strange inconsistencies. I have heard swearing euphemistically described as the utterance of "short prayers." One of our field officers was a man whose godly life was known to all, yet in intense moments short prayers of startling character would escape him.

On a Sunday, so it was said, a group of officers gathered in his tent fell into warm discussion of some troublesome regimental affair. The colonel paced back and forth with his hands behind him, taking no part in the conversation, but biting his bristly mustache, as was his wont when annoyed. Suddenly he stopped short and, facing them, exclaimed: "Well, gentlemen, let's stop this damned quibbling and go and worship God awhile." Then picking up his Bible, he strode off by himself into the woods, leaving his guests to their reflections.

Religious men were apt to be more intense in the army than at home, and those who frequented the prayer-meetings in the tents or, in pleasant weather, under the trees, will never forget their atmosphere of warm and solemn earnestness.

On the night before we stormed Maree's Hill, the moon shone through fleecy clouds and it was only partly dark. We lay in line of battle at rest, the most of us trying to sleep. Presently, out toward the front, between us and the skirmish line, voices were heard. The watchful major anxiously asked: "What is that? Who is talking out there in front?" One of the men answered, "Major, it is only some of the boys having a prayer-meeting;" and the Major says that instantly, in place of his fears and vexation, a feeling of deep thankfulness came over him as he thought of the prayers ascending for us all on the verge of battle.

There was a young soldier in our company to whom his mother, when she parted. from him, gave a little book of daily Scripture selections. She said to him: "I have another just like this, and we will both read the same verses every day." The soldier kept true tryst with his absent mother, and, no matter where he was, read his text every day. As we lay in the sunken road on that fateful morning after the moonlight prayermeeting, and the bullets began to speak their

deadly whispers in our ears, and we were all feeling the chill and dread of the plunge into battle, he opened his little book. The text for the day was, "Fear not, for I am with thee: be not dismayed, for I am thy God!" He has told me that if a voice from heaven had spoken it could not have been more clear, and for the remainder of that terrible day all fear was gone.

How

We believed in our cause, in the war, and in final victory; but we were not soldiers for the love of it. The end of fighting and home was the goal of the hope of the army -a vain hope to thousands of us, yet the star that beckoned us all forward. eagerly our thoughts turned northward might be seen on mail days. Letters came with varying regularity; in settled camp we could generally count on them, but in times of active campaign mails were uncertain, and when one arrived it was pathetic to see the wave of expectation that would sweep through the ranks. Often a cheer would go up when the postman, with mail bags slung across his horse, came in sight. Then there was impatient waiting until the letters for the company came down from headquarters, and an anxious crowd around the captain as he called them off. The disappointment of those who received none was often pitiful. You would hear one and another say: "Captain, isn't there one for me?" "Captain, are you sure? I know I ought to have one this time."

Then, tired and hungry as we were after the day's march, supper would go untasted until we could read the news from home; and long afterward by our camp-fires we would talk it over; and you might hear letterless Tom come to Bill and ask, “What does your wife say about my folks? Has she seen them lately? Are they all well?" The most of us would read our letters with quiet gladness; but now and then you might see some poor fellow bending with tear-stained face over his message from home, and hear his comrades saying in hushed tones of sympathy, "Jim has bad news; his little girl is dead."

The outgoing mail was far lighter than the incoming: we wrote under difficulties; yet there were times when the whole camp seemed filled with scribes. But our letters were apt to be brief, and when any important movement was at hand we knew that they would not be promptly forwarded. Inconvenient information sometimes traveled in army letters.

Our turn at picket duty was, with some

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