Our service on the coast ended April 28, 1864. On April 23 orders were received transferring our regiment to Gen. A. R. Wright's Brigade, Army of Northern Virginia. Gen. H. W. Mercer in command, had been ordered to report for duty to Gen. Johnston at Dalton, Ga. As Gordon and Mercer were both Savannah men and their war service to that date had thrown them together, they succeeded in inducing the War Department to change our orders and assign us to Johnston's Army. April 28 we left Savannah, reaching Dalton at 3 a. m. April 30, and on May 4 were attached to Gen. W. H. T. Walker's division, three miles east of Dalton. On May 7 Sherman opened his Atlanta campaign and for one hundred days the rattle of musketry, the roar of cannon, the shrieking of shells and the zip of minies, grew very familiar to us, if not very amusing. Our first sight of the enemy was at Rocky Face Ridge, May 9. Our pickets were driven in and our trenches shelled, causing some casualties in the regiment, but none in the Oglethorpes. Lieut. Reddick of Co. B, while reading a newspaper in rear of the trenches was killed by a Federal sharpshooter. No assault was made on our position, but at three other points in Johnston's line efforts were made to carry the trenches, though the attacks were all repulsed. On the same day Sherman, probably anticipating such a result, began his flanking plan of campaign by sending McPherson through Snake Creek Gap to threaten Johnston's line of communications at Resaca. The Federal superiority in numbers at a ratio of nearly two to one, enabled Sherman to cover Johnston's entire front and gave him besides a large force with which to conduct his flanking operations, a policy he pursued persistently and successfully to the end of the campaign. As it is not my purpose to give the general features of this campaign, but simply to record the share borne in it by the 63rd Ga. regiment, I can, perhaps best subserve that purpose by furnishing the following condensed extracts from my "War Diary" for that period, elaborating afterward any special features or incidents that may seem to merit more extended notice.

May 10. Left trenches 1 a. m., marched to a point 3 miles from Resaca. (11). Marched to Resaca and returned. (12). Marched to a position one mile above Calhoun. (13). Quiet. Being unwell, on invitation of Lieut. Daniel spent the night with Rev. I. S. Hopkins and himself at the house of his mother in Calhoun.

14. Battle of Resaca. Rejoined command on its way to the front. Walker's division held in reserve until 12 p. m. Then ordered up to reinforce Stewart's division. Exposed to heavy artillery fire while crossing pontoon bridge at Resaca. Heavy fighting in our front. Enemy repulsed. 10 p. m., marched back through Calhoun to Tanner's Ferry.

15. In line of battle. Jackson's brigade charged enemy's line at the Ferry but were repulsed. 10 p. m., returned to Calhoun.

16. Marched to Tanner's Ferry. Heavy skirmishing between Steven's brigade and the enemy. Junius T. Steed of the Oglethorpes, wounded. Slept on our arms.

17. At 1 a. m. aroused and ordered to fall back to Adairsville. Remained in line of battle until 12 p. m.

18. Fell back four miles below Kingston.

19. Advanced and took position 2 miles from Kingston. Under fire from sharpshooters and skirmishers H. L. Hill killed and T. F. Burbanks wounded. 12 or 15 casualties in regiment. Retired to Cass station and formed line of battle. Johnston's battle order issued.

20. At 1 a. m. crossed the Etowah and fell back to within two miles of Altoona.

21-22. Quiet. (23). Marched five miles in the direction of Dallas.

24. Aroused at daylight and marched 15 miles, camping near Powder Springs.

25. At 1 a. m. marched four miles back. At 2 p. m. moved forward a mile and formed line of battle. After night moved three miles and bivouacked.

26. At 3 a. m. went forward and took position in rear of Stewart's division. Skirmishing in front all day.

27. Moved to the left near Dallas and then a mile or two to the right. H. B. Jackson wounded. Oglethorpes and Co. I thrown out as skirmishers. At 11 p. m. brigade ordered away, leaving us on skirmish line without support.

28. Skirmishing all day. Capt. Picquet wounded in leg, A. W. McCurdy in head.

29. At 4 p. m. relieved from duty on skirmish line and rejoined regiment on Ellsbury Ridge.

30-June 1. Quiet. (2). Heavy rain. Division moved four miles to the right in rear of Stevenson, slippery march.

3. Quiet day. At 11 p. m. moved off to the right. Jackson's brigade and a portion of ours detached in the darkness, lost their way and forced to lie over till morning.

4. Rejoined division and built breastworks. Oglethorpes and Co. G on picket. Skirmishing with the enemy. At 12 p. m. relieved by Wheeler's cavalry and told to "git," as our army had fallen back. Overtook regiment after five mile tramp over muddiest road I ever saw. Moved 3 miles further and took position in rear of Gist's brigade. (6-7). Quiet.

8. Brigade on picket. 63d Ga. in reserve.

9-11. Quiet, and rain, rain, rain.

12. On picket. Wet time.

13. Brigade on picket. Skirmishing between the lines.

14. Quiet. (15). Brigade on picket. Shelled by Federal batteries. Lowry's pickets retired leaving our flank exposed. Took position on left of Cleburne's division. At 11 p. m. moved to the rear of Lowry's brigade.

16. Shelled by the enemy. Some casualties in regiment.

17. Moved several times. Built breastworks.

18. Six companies from regiment sent out to reinforce skirmishers. Heavy fighting between the lines all day. Carroll, Casey, Knox, Miller and Smith wounded. 25 casualties in other companies of the regiment. Relieved at 8 p. m. Moved 2 1-2 miles towards Marietta.

19. Moved up to the summit of a ridge as a picket reserve. At night moved down in rear of breastworks and then half mile to the right and had orders to fortify but slept.

20. Dug trenches on Kennesaw line of defence. Heavy skirmishing and artillery firing on our right.

21. Remained in the trenches. Skirmishing in our front.

22. Artillery duel between the enemy and our batteries on Kennesaw. Six companies from our regiment sent out on picket line.

23. Skirmishing on picket line all day. No casualties in Oglethorpes. Relieved at 8 p. m.

24-25. Artillery firing and skirmishing.

26. W. A. Dabney wounded last night in arm while asleep. Seven companies and a detail of 47 men from the Oglethorpes sent out from the regiment on picket line.

27. Battle of Kennesaw began at 8 a. m. and ended at 11:30. Enemy repulsed all along the line, with heavy loss. Oglethorpes lost twenty-three in killed, wounded and captured. Loss in regiment 88.

28-July 1. Quiet. (2) At 10 p. m. right wing of the army fell back to a position 5 miles below Marietta.

3. Federal army lined up in our front.

4. Some indication of a general engagement. Yankees seem disposed to celebrate the day with their artillery. Co. A with five other companies from the regiment on picket. Heard some excellent music by the Federal bands.

5. Army retired to a position near the Chattahoochee.

6. Entrenched and moved to the left.

7. Quiet. (8). Co. A with five others on picket.

9. Retired and crossed river to rejoin brigade.

10. Johnston's entire army crossed the Chattahoochee last night.

11. Having been quite unwell for several days, through advice of Lieut. Daniel and Dr. Cumming I went to Division Hospital. On the 15th was sent by Medical Board to Atlanta. On the 17th went to hospital at Oxford, Ga. I did not rejoin my command again until Aug. 18th. During my absence Gen. Johnston had been superseded by Gen. Hood as commander of the Army of Tennessee, the battles of Peach Tree Creek and Atlanta had been fought, Gen. W. H. T. Walker, our division commander had been killed and our brigade had been transferred to Pat Cleburne's division. In the battle of Peach Tree Creek July 20th, our regiment was only partially engaged and suffered but little loss. Eugene Verdery and Henry Booth of the Oglethorpes were wounded. The former had volunteered for service on the skirmish line that day and while driving in the enemy's picket line received a wound in the head, which caused him to spin around like a top.

In the battle of Atlanta, July 22, the regiment was in the thick of the fight and lost more heavily. Of the Oglethorpes, S. M. Guy was killed. Ob. Rooks was mortally wounded, M. H. Crowder lost a leg, R. W. Lassiter an arm, Jim McLaughlin the bridge of his nose, while George Leonhardt, John Bynum, Clay Foster, Hugh Ogilby, John Quinn and J. O. Wiley were otherwise wounded. After my return to the company, near East Point, on the 18th the regiment was sent to the picket line on the 19th and when relieved on the morning of the 20th, was placed on the reserve line, where we remained until the 30th. At 2 a. m. that day we were aroused and ordered to "fall in," but did not move until daylight, when we shifted position 3 or 4 miles to the left. At 11 p. m. we were again on the march and after a fatiguing night tramp reached Jonesboro about daylight on the 31st.

BATTLE OF JONESBORO.

After investing and bombarding Atlanta for a month, Sherman had begun his flanking tactics again by sending five of his corps to seize the M. & W. Road at Jonesboro, and Hardee, with his own and Lee's corps, had been sent down to checkmate the movement. After resting a few hours we were formed in line of battle across an old field with only Lowry's brigade on our left. For the only time in my experience as a soldier, the plan of battle was read to our command. Lee's corps and two divisions of Hardee's were to attack the enemy in front while Cleburne's division, to which we belonged, were to advance, then wheel to the right and attack in flank. Lying for several hours under a hot August sun awaiting orders to advance, I remember that, being uncertain as to my fate in the coming fight, and unwilling to allow the letters in my possession to fall into the enemy's hands, I tore them up, leaving only one for the identification of my body in case of my death. At 2 p. m. we were ordered forward. Crossing the open field and advancing through a piece of woodland, a battery of artillery opened on us but their shot flew high. Sol Foreman of the Oglethorpes, was struck by a piece of shell, but there was no other casualty in the company. After advancing nearly a mile we struck a boggy swamp and on its farthest edge Flint river. Will Daniel plunged in and turning to me said, "Come on sergeant." He had gone but a little way when the water reached his arm pits and sword in hand he swam across. Knowing that my cartridges would be useless if I followed suit, I ran up the stream and found dry passage on a log that lay across it. Reaching the crest of the hill beyond, we halted to reform the line. The horse ridden by Col. Olmstead, our brigade commander, had mired in the swamp, our regiment was without a field officer and Will Daniel offered to take command of the brigade in the final charge, which we all felt to be ahead of us. The hill on which we stood had been occupied by Federal cavalry and artillery, who had retired as we approached. The roar of battle giving evidence of a fierce engagement on our right, came to us over the hills and valleys; Capt. Dickson of Cleburne's staff, with his horse all afoam, his coat and vest discarded and the perspiration trickling from his face, was riding from point to point in the line giving his final orders and the sultry summer air smelled viciously of powder and lead. At this juncture a courier from Cleburne dashed up with orders for us to retire. We had gone some distance beyond the point intended and had become entirely detached from the line on our right. The attack in the enemy's front had failed to dislodge them and our two brigades could hardly have accomplished much against five corps of the enemy. By dusk we had resumed our original position and our regiment was placed on the picket line. On Sept. 1, Lee's corps returned to Atlanta and Hardee was left with his two divisions to face an enemy whose strength was five times his own. Relieved from picket by a detail of Cheatham's division, we were placed in the trenches vacated by Lee's corps. At 3 p. m. the enemy massed heavily in front of Lewis' Ky., and Govans' Ark. brigades and assaulted in three lines of battle, but were repulsed. They then formed in column of companies, making ten lines of battle, and renewed the attack. Our breastworks at this point were inferior and were manned only by a line in single rank.

With such odds the issue could not long remain in doubt. Govans' line was broken and a part of his brigade was captured. No assault was made on the line held by us, though we were subjected to a heavy fire from their skirmish line. At 10 p. m., Hardee evacuated his position and at daylight on the 2nd, occupied another, near Lovejoy Station. Sherman secured a foothold on the M. & W. Road and Hood, compelled to give up Atlanta, formed a junction with Hardee on the 3rd.

The enemy had again taken position in our front and skirmishing was kept up until the 8th, when they were recalled by Sherman and the Dalton and Atlanta campaign was ended.

FURTHER MEMORIES OF THE CAMPAIGN.

The following incidents oscillating as they do "from grave to gay," and marked perhaps as much by comedy as by tragedy, will probably be of more interest to the reader of these records than the details just ended:

"TWO AND A DOG."

At the date of our transfer from the coast to Johnston's army, our uniforms were in fairly good condition and bore in almost every case the insignia of rank held by the wearer. The writer's jacket had on its sleeves the regulation chevrons of an orderly sergeant, three bars or stripes with lozenge or diamond above them. The troops who had followed the fortunes of the Western army from Shiloh to Chickamauga were not so well clad and had, to a large extent discarded their official insignia. For this reason they were disposed to guy us as bandbox soldiers. Passing some of these veterans one day on the march one of them noticed my chevrons and sang out to his comrades: "Look there, boys. I've often hearn of "two and a dog" but I'll be blamed if there ain't "three and a dog." I reckon that's the way they play kyards on the coast." The laugh that followed convinced me that my lack of familiarity with the mysteries of the card table was not shared by those who heard the jest.

STRIPES ON THE WRONG SIDE.

While we suffered from deficiencies on other lines in the summer of '64, there was certainly no lack of rainy weather during that campaign. The roads over which we tramped were composed largely of a red, adhesive clay. The writer's physical conformation gave him some right to be classed with the knock-kneed species of the genus homo, and in marching over the wet clay hills, the red pigment began at his ankles and by successive contact, traveled gradually up the inside seams of his grey trousers until those seams and an inch-wide space on either side were covered for almost their entire length. Passing one day a division resting by the roadside, one of them noticed the peculiar condition of my bifurcated garment, and sang out to me: "Hello, my friend; you've got the stripe on the wrong side of your pants." I could not deny the soft impeachment and enjoyed the laugh raised at my expense as much as did my comrades.

A CLOSE SHAVE.

The battle of Resaca began May 14, '64. Walker's division, to which we belonged, was held in reserve during the morning and at 12 p. m., as the fighting grew fiercer, we were ordered up to reinforce Stewart's division in our front. A pontoon bridge had been laid across the Oostenaula river and a courier stationed on its bank to hurry the men across, as the railroad embankment on the other side would protect them from the fire of a Federal battery, which had secured the exact range of the road over which we were passing. As we approached the bridge Capt. Martin, commanding the company next in our front, halted the column a moment to hear what the courier was saying. As the march was resumed, a solid shot from the battery struck directly in a file of fours in Martin's company killing two and wounding a third, not more than ten feet from where I stood. The time occupied in the halt would have about sufficed to have covered the intervening distance, and certainly saved the lives of some of the Oglethorpes and possibly my own. Crossing the river, Gen. W. H. T. Walker passed us going to the front and as he rode by, another shot from the battery struck immediately behind him, barely missing his horse. Glancing around at the dust it had raised and turning to us with a smile on his face, he said, "Go it boots," and galloped on to the head of the division. On this, as well as on every other occasion when under fire, he seemed not only absolutely indifferent to danger, but really to enjoy its presence. Gen. Cabell, in recalling his association with Gen. Walker in the '60's, said that battle always brought to his eyes an unusual glitter and that he thought him the bravest man he had ever known.

A hero in three wars, severely wounded at Okeechobee, Fla., and at Molino Del Rey and Chapultpec, Mex., he fell at last gallantly leading his division at the battle of Atlanta, July 22, '64, and I am sure no battle soil on God's green earth in all the ages was ever stained by braver or by nobler blood than William Henry Walker's.

A TWILIGHT PRAYER MEETING.

On May 19, '64, Sherman and Johnston were fronting each other near Kingston, Ga. In the skirmishing that day the Oglethorpes had suffered some casualties, among them one that saddened all the company. Hugh Legare Hill, son of Hon. Joshua Hill, a beardless boy, had been shot through the head and instantly killed. He had joined us some months before at Thunderbolt and becoming restive under the inaction of coast service, had applied for a transfer to Johnston's army. Chafing under the delay brought on by military red tape in such matters, and anxious to secure a place on the firing line he had urged the officers to press the matter as he wanted to reach his new command in time for the opening of the spring campaign. Before the papers were returned our regiment was ordered to Dalton and the transfer was abandoned.

Poor Legare! The spring campaign had not yet drifted into summer before his bright young life, that knew no other season, but its spring, had found its sad and sudden ending on the firing line, a place for which he longed so ardently and met so bravely.

In the evening of that day we occupied a line near Cass Station, a line chosen by Johnston for a general and decisive engagement with Sherman's army. The Fabian policy, that had marked the campaign from its opening, was to be ended. The gage of battle was thrown down and Atlanta's fate was to be settled before another sunset. Every arrangement for the coming conflict was made and the men ready and anxious for the fray were resting on their arms. At the twilight hour two members of the Oglethorpes left their places in the ranks and retired to a quiet spot in the forest not far away to talk with God. No church spire raised its lofty summit heavenward. Under the open sky in one of "God's first temples," as dusk was deepening into night, they kneeled together and each in turn, in tones of earnest supplication, asked for God's protecting care upon themselves and on their comrades in the coming battle and for His blessing on the flag for which they fought and prayed. And when their prayers were ended, they pledged each other that if it was the fate of either one to fall, the other would act a brother's part and give such aid and comfort as he could.

Returning to their places in the line, they wrapped their worn, grey blankets around them and lay down under the starlight to pass in calm and quiet sleep, the night before the battle. I have attended many larger prayer meetings since that day; I have heard many petitions to a Throne of Grace, clothed in more cultured phrase, and yet but few that seemed more earnest or filled with simpler trust in God.

Under the urgent protest of Hood and Polk, Joe Johnston's plans were changed and the promised battle beside the Etowah was never fought. I know not what the issue would have been, personal or national. I know that if the hundred and fifty thousand men marshalled upon that field on that May day had met in deadly strife, the shadows would have fallen on many a Northern and many a Southern home. And yet somehow I can but feel that if that evening's bloody promise had been fulfilled and in the gathering twilight at its close our company roll was called to mark the living and the dead, my friend and comrade, Steed, and I, whose humble prayers had broken the silence of the evening air to reach no other ears but ours and God's, would in His kindly providence have answered, "Here."

TOM HOWARD'S SQUIRREL BEAD.

On May 28, '64, we were on skirmish line near Dallas, Ga. The remainder of the brigade had left the trenches in our rear to reinforce some other point in the line and the pickets were holding the fort alone. A Federal sharpshooter had secured a concealed position at short range and was picking off the men in a way highly satisfactory to himself, perhaps, but decidedly unpleasant to us. We had been on duty all the night before and worn out from loss of sleep. I sat down with my back to a tree as a protection from careless bullets and fell asleep. Will Daniel, in a similar position and for like reasons, was dozing at the next tree twenty feet away. A courier came down the line and waking me asked for the officer in command. I pointed to Will and as the courier laid his hand on Will's shoulder to wake him, a ball crashed through his knee, causing him to scream with pain. A little while before Louis Picquet had received the wound that cost him his leg, and a little later McCurdy of our company, fell with a ball through his head.

Tom Howard had been watching the progress of events and they seemed to him entirely too one-sided. Gripping his rifle more tightly and with the peculiar flash that came to his eyes when excited, he said, "Boys if I can get a squirrel bead on that fellow I can stop his racket." Slipping from tree to tree until he located the picket by the smoke of his gun, he drew his squirrel bead and fired. This time the yell of pain came from the other side, and Tom, with his eyes dancing and his face all aglow, turned to us and said, "Boys, I got him. I heard him holler." Tom's bead had stopped the racket.

"WHEN THIS CRUEL WAR IS OVER."

Tom was one of the "characters" in the company. Brave and generous, full of life and humor and always ready for duty, he would sometimes grow a little homesick. One day, Ab Mitchell, sitting on the edge of the trenches, began to sing, "When this cruel war is over." So far as I know, Ab had never taken first prize at a singing school, but as Tom listened, the plaintive melody of the air and the undertone of sadness in the verses carried him back to his old home in Oglethorpe. Every feature of the old plantation life rose vividly before him. He heard the "watch dog's honest bark bay deep-mouthed welcome" as he drew near home. He slaked his thirst from the "old oaken bucket that hung in the well." He heard the lowing cows and saw the playful gambol of his blooded stock cantering across the barn yard. He saw the blooming cotton fields and heard the rustling of the waving corn. But last and best of all, he felt the pressure of tiny arms about his neck, the touch of loving lips upon his own and then his dream was over. With tears in the heart if not in his eye, he thought of the life that lay before him; of the weary months or years that would come and go before these old familiar scenes would gladden his eyes again, and he could stand it no longer. Rising suddenly he seized his old rifle and turning to the singer, he said, "Ab Mitchell, if you sing another line of that song, I'll blow your blamed head off." And the concert ended without an encore.

"JIM, TOUCH OFF NO. 1."

During this campaign, Major Bledsoe of Missouri, commanded a battalion of artillery in Cleburne's division. A veteran of two wars, combining in his personality both the Southern and Western types, tall and gaunt, with no trace of Beau Brummellism in his physical or mental make-up, he was as stubborn a fighter as the struggle produced on either side, and yet away from the battlefield he was as gentle and as genial as a woman. So accurate were his gunners and so effective their fire, that it was said that no Federal battery had ever planted itself in range of his guns, when they were once unlimbered.

As he sat by his battery one day in May, '64, reading a newspaper, a stranger approached him and said, "Major, where are the Yankees?" Raising his eyes from the paper a moment he turned to one of his gunners and said: "Jim, touch off No. 1," and resumed his reading. "Jim" pulled the lanyard, there was a puff of smoke, the earth trembled from the concussion and the six-pound messenger sped on its mission of death. As it reached its mark, which had been hidden by the undergrowth in front, the "blue coats" were seen scattering in every direction. The stranger was answered.

As I may have no further occasion to refer to Major Bledsoe in these records, an incident or two occurring some months later may not be amiss in this connection. On October 29, '64, near Courtland, Ala., on our trip to Nashville, a grey fox crossed our line of march, passing between two of the regiments. The Major was riding by and spurring his horse to full speed, he gave chase, trying at every step to disengage his pistol from the holster for a shot at the animal. I think he failed to secure the "brush." The Reynard tribe must have been numerous in that section, for on reaching our camping place that evening, we found Pat Cleburne and his entire staff chasing another fox through an old field.

After the retreat from Nashville our division was ordered to North Carolina and in the transfer the trip from Selma to Montgomery, Ala., was made by steamer. The boat was old and slow, and the voyage monotonous. To enliven it, the boys, for lack of better game, would try their marksmanship on every buzzard that in silent dignity sat perched on the tall dead pines that lined the river bank. Major Bledsoe was with us, and constituting himself a "lookout" for the game, he entered into the sport with all the zest and ardor of a boy. He was probably no blood kin to "Jim Bludsoe" of Prairie Belle fame, but under similar conditions I believe that like "Jim" he would, regardless of his own fate, have

Mention has been made of a panic that occurred on a night march near Green Brier river, Va., in '61. A similar stampede occurred on the night of May 25, '64, near Powder Springs, Ga. We were in reserve and were shifting position to the right. The night was dark and none of us knew the object of the movement or our destination. Tramping along quietly under a moonless sky over a country road darkly shaded by a heavy forest growth, a sudden rumbling was heard, increasing in volume as it approached and then the column in front dimly seen in the starlight, swayed to the right and there was a unanimous movement to get out of the way and to get quickly. One man, thoroughly demoralized, broke through the woods at full speed in the darkness, ran into a tree, that stood in his pathway, and dislocated his knee cap. Most of the men thought the enemy's cavalry were charging down the road upon them and they took to the woods and did not stand upon the order of their going. The rumbling was caused by the hurried tramp of feet as the men left the road. It was simply a causeless stampede and no one knew how it began. It was said that a deer ran across the road in front of the column, but I can not vouch for the correctness of this explanation.

I do not know how it may have been with others, but to the writer the expectation of meeting an unseen enemy in the dark, with no means of ascertaining his numbers or location, was never a pleasant sensation. It would have modified the feeling, perhaps, if I had borne in mind always the advice of a Confederate general to his men to "remember that the other side is as badly scared as you are."

A SUMMER DAY ON THE FIRING LINE.

It was a day in June, but neither a perfect nor a rare June day. For two weeks and more it had rained almost continuously. Every day or two Jabe Poyner, the weather prophet of the company, had said, "Well boys, this is the clearing up shower." And still it rained and rained and rained until Poyner's reputation on this line had gone where the woodbine twineth. In the early morning of the 18th there was another of Jabe's clearing up showers and at its close the boys were lying on the wet ground, a hundred yards in rear of the breastworks, awaiting orders. They had amused themselves for a time by shooting pebbles at each other, when Bill Byrd's foot was struck and he said, "Boys, don't shoot so hard—that one hurt." Looking down at his foot, he found that another partner had entered the game as it had been hit by a minnie ball from the skirmish line.

The firing had begun at daylight and was growing heavier. At 8 a. m. six companies of the regiment were ordered to the front to reinforce our skirmish line, which was being pressed back. "Over the breastworks, Oglethorpes," sang out Lieut. Daniel, and we went over with a yell. Advancing and deploying under fire, we reached a position within 250 yards of the Federal line and having no rifle pits, we availed ourselves of such protection as the larger forest trees afforded. Selecting a post oak, I had been there only a little while when the man on my right, belonging to another company, was shot down. The woods were very thick in my front and not relishing the idea of being killed with such limited opportunity of returning the favor, I shifted my position to the leeward side of a red oak, twenty or thirty feet to the left where the woods were more open and a Federal rifle pit in front was only partially hidden from my view. The diameter of the tree about covered my own and there for twelve hours, in a drizzling rain, I cultivated the acquaintance of that oak more earnestly perhaps than I had ever fostered a personal friendship. For that day at least it was "my own familiar friend in whom I trusted," and if on bidding it adieu, I had met the owner, my prayer to him would have been,

All day long leaden messengers were knocking at the door of my improvised breastwork in search of my long and lank anatomy. It was barked and scarred and torn from the root to twenty feet above my head. Twice the bark was knocked into my eyes and once a ball striking at the foot of the tree filled them with dirt. On one of these occasions I must have flinched a little as George Harrison, who was cultivating friendly relations with the next tree on my right, turned anxiously and asked if I was shot.

The Federal line as a rule stuck rather closely to their pits and not feeling authorized to waste my ammunition I fired only when there was a blue target in sight. Some of the boys, less careful of their cartridges expended 80 or 90 rounds during the day. John Carroll, ten feet to my left, kept firing when I could see no game, and I said to him, "John, what are you shooting at?" "Well," he said, "they are down that way." Before the day was ended some of them "down that way" had shot him through the thigh, and the poor fellow died of the wound.

In addition to the incessant infantry fire, which made small lead mines of the friendly oaks, the Federal artillery, not wishing to be lacking in social attentions, complimented us at short intervals with volleys of grape. These came over us like the whir of a covey of overgrown partridges, but fortunately flew high, causing more nervousness than execution.

Ninety thousand rounds of ammunition were fired on Hardee's line alone that day and our friends on the other side expended probably an equal or larger number. There was no intermission for lunch. Our rations were nearly half a mile away and the Northern exposure of the route towards them somehow dulled our appetites. There are several incidents that come back very vividly today from that twelve hours' fright in the woods.

A SQUIRREL HUNT UNDER DIFFICULTIES.

One of these incidents furnished an exhibition of coolness under fire and indifference to danger that had no parallel in all my term of service. About midday I heard several shots fired a short distance in my rear. Fearing that some excited soldier might fire wildly and shoot me in the back, I turned to investigate, and saw a member of the regiment standing in an exposed position and coolly and deliberately firing, not at the enemy, but at a squirrel he had discovered in the branches of the tree above our heads. Grape shot were tearing the limbs from their sockets, minies were making music in the air, or striking the oaks with a dull, dull thud, but that soldier, was oblivious to everything save a determination to have fried squirrel for supper. If I knew his name I cannot now recall it, nor do I remember whether the squirrel was included in the casualties of that day.

JIM THOMAS' DILEMMA.

During the afternoon Jim and a Yankee picket had been taking alternate shots at each other and it was the Yankee's time to shoot. Jim was nestling up to the Southern side of his tree and thinking possibly of all the meanness he had ever committed in order to feel as small as possible, when a cannon ball crashed through the tree, cutting off its top and sending it by force of gravity, in the direction of his head. He was in a dilemma. If he remained where he was he was liable to be crushed to death by the falling timber, and if he left his cover the picket would probably kill him. Under ordinary circumstances Jim may not have been averse to taking a "horn," but in this dilemma he was undecided which horn to take, whether to bear the ills he had or fly to others, that unfortunately he knew too well.

"All things come to him who waits," but in this case there was something coming that Jim didn't care to wait for. Doing perhaps the rapidest thinking of his life he decided if he had to shuffle off this mortal coil, he would do so in a soldierly way, and leaving the protection of his tree he gave his antagonist a fair shot. Fortunately the aim was bad and Jim lived to laugh over his deliverance from a sea of troubles.

A POOR GUN OR A POOR GUNNER.

Obliquely to the right of my position in the line, and about 250 yards distant as I estimated it, there was a shallow ravine or valley and 20 or 30 feet beyond, on its further slope, a Yankee rifle pit. For reasons which readily occurred to the writer at the time and which will probably suggest themselves to the reader, I did not take the trouble to verify my estimate of the distance by stepping it. About the center of this depression in the land was a very large tree—a pine, as I recollect it. On the farther side of this tree and hidden by it entirely from my view for the larger part of the day was a six-foot Yankee soldier, an officer probably, for he had no gun in his hand. During the afternoon, to protect himself from the fire of other skirmishers on my right, he had "inched" around the tree until his body from his knee upward was in plain and unobstructed view of my position. It was drizzling rain and his shoulders were protected by a blue blanket thrown across them. It was the fairest, prettiest shot I had enjoyed during the day and fearing that he would change his position, I aimed at his breast rather hurriedly and fired. The shot failed even to scare him for he didn't move an inch. Reloading as rapidly as I could, I steadied the gun against the red oak and with as deliberate aim as I had ever taken at a squirrel in my boyhood I fired again. And still he moved not. Reloading again I took even longer aim and when the smoke cleared from the muzzle of the gun he had disappeared. I do not think that he was either killed or disabled as in such event I would have seen him carried to the rear. I am glad to believe that my third shot simply convinced him that a change of base was desirable and that he acted upon that conviction while the smoke obstructed my vision.

And now in at least partial extenuation of what seemed very poor marksmanship it may not be amiss to say that the weapon used was an Austrian rifle and was considered a very inferior gun. With an Enfield or Springfield rifle I think I could have made a better record, provided always that my nerves had not been rendered unsteady by the necessity for dodging minies for six or eight hours. George Harrison, who took care of the tree nearest me on the right has always insisted that I did redeem my reputation on that day, but with so many guns in possible range of the same point it was impossible for him to have known definitely whose shot was effective. Such a result, if positively settled, would be to me now only an unpleasant memory and while in the discharge of my duty as a Confederate soldier and in justice to the cause, for which I fought, I lost no opportunity and spared no effort to lessen the number of effectives on the other side, it has been a gratification to me to have no positive knowledge that my efforts were ever successful.

SAVED FROM DEATH BY A BIBLE.

Evan H. Lawrence, of Morgan county, and a member of the Oglethorpes, occupied that day a position about 20 feet to my left. He had in his left breast pocket and covering his heart, a Bible. During the day a minie ball struck the book and passing partly through, stopped at the 7th verse of the 52d chapter of Isiah. But for the protection furnished by the book it would probably have produced a fatal wound. He told me afterwards that the subject matter of that special chapter had been in his thoughts all day. He survived the war, entered the ministry of the Baptist church and preached his first sermon from the text named above: "How beautiful upon the mountains are the feet of Him that bringeth good tidings, that publisheth peace," etc. I am satisfied that the incident and the peculiar significance of the text had a controlling influence in the selection of his life work after the war. He fought a good fight, both as a soldier and a Christian, and I feel assured, has received his certificate of promotion in the ranks of the army above.

At 8 p. m. we were relieved and returned to the trenches. Twelve hours' continuous fighting had rendered us hungry for rest as well as food, but our rations of both were destined to be short. The beef issued to us had been slaughtered so long and was so badly tainted that even a soldier's appetite had to reject it. Only the tallow or fat could be used and this was stuck on the end of a ramrod, placed in the flame until the outer surface was scorched and was then eaten with a relish that the rarest dainties of a royal table would not bring to me now. After a hasty lunch we were again on the tramp. The roads were very muddy, the march was obstructed by wagons in front and we made only 2 1-2 miles in four hours. There were frequent halts and at one of them Will Daniel and the writer, standing side by side in the mud, both fell asleep. After a time the company moved on, but neither of us awoke until jostled by other troops in passing us. This incident recalls the fact that on a forced march in Tennessee afterwards, I slept walking. The nap must have been a short one, but that I lost consciousness was proven by the fact that I dreamed of a young lady three hundred miles away.

A little after midnight we were halted on the crest of a ridge and thoroughly worn out we lay down to rest, invoking in our hearts if not upon our lips, blessings on the man that invented sleep.

INCIDENTS ON THE KENNESAW LINE.

On the next day, 19th, we were on reserve picket all day in the rain, but fortunately with no fighting to do. Relieved at midnight, we retired behind the trenches, as the writer hoped, for much-needed rest and sleep. My only blanket had been thoroughly soaked by the rain and knowing Gen. Johnston's predilection for changing base at night, I was in doubt whether to take the chance of securing such sleep as I could get in a wet blanket, or to build a fire, dry the blanket and fall into the arms of Morpheus like a gentleman. I chose the latter course, spent an hour in the drying process and then lay down, hopeful of a good night's rest. I had just fitted my angular frame to the inequalities of the ground, when the ominous "Fall in," Fall in.. fell like another wet blanket on my heart and hopes. Out into the mud and darkness we tramped, not knowing whither we went and caring, perhaps as little. We were finally halted near the base of Kennesaw Mountain and on the line we were to occupy for the next two weeks. Before dismissing the company Will Daniel said, "An attack is expected on this line at daylight tomorrow, and I have orders to fortify it. I am tired and I am going to sleep. You can entrench or not, as you choose, but I want you to distinctly understand that you have got to hold this line in the morning, breastworks or no breastworks."

Only one man remained awake to fortify and he dug his trench in the wrong direction. Fortunately the expected attack did not materialize next day and we found ample opportunity to entrench before it came on the 27th.

SLEEPING UNDER DIFFICULTIES.

The ground through which our trenches ran sloped upwards in our rear and as we were in range of the Federal skirmish line, the balls that missed the breastworks would strike the soil 20 or 30 feet back of them. On the night of June 25 I was sleeping under a shelter made of bark stripped from chestnut trees, with Will Dabney as bedfellow. About midnight I was awakened by his groaning and found that he had been wounded while asleep, the ball entering his arm above the elbow and stopping at the bone without breaking it. W. J. Steed was accustomed to use his shoes and socks as a pillow for his head, a habit growing possibly out of his daily effort as commissary to make both ends meet. He was a little surprised one morning to find that a minie ball had passed through his improvised pillow without disturbing his sleep. Geo. McLaughlin found one morning a minie imbedded in the heel of the shoe he had laid aside for the night. These cases might indicate that our Northern friends were rather partial to that kind of in-shoe-rance, but I am satisfied that George and "Phunie" would have preferred a different policy.

The fire from the skirmish line was so heavy one morning and the balls were flying around so carelessly that the company was ordered into the trenches. Frank Stone and I had not finished our breakfast and as Will Daniel had a personal interest in the meal, we secured his consent to continue our culinary operations. I was sitting by the fire cutting up a piece of beef for hash, when one of those careless minies struck my right arm near the wrist, ventilating the sleeve of my jacket and partially disabling my arm for ten days. As a souvenir of that temporary interruption to the hash business I have that minie filed away among other war curios.

THE VICTIM OF MISPLACED CONFIDENCE.

Our stay at Kennesaw was marked by another squirrel incident differing somewhat from that of June 18, already referred to. A short distance in the rear of our position a Confederate battery had been planted and between this and the enemy's batteries there were frequent artillery duels. So frequent were these engagements and so accustomed did we become to the noise of the guns that if asleep it failed to awake us, although our battery was only seventy-five yards away. On one of these occasions we were ordered into the trenches for protection from the shells. Sitting in the ditch with our faces turned rearward, some one in the ranks spied a squirrel in the branches of a tree standing near our battery. He was apparently crazed by the noise of the guns and the shriek of the shells flying around him. One of the Oglethorpes sang out to him, "Come down in the trenches—you'll be killed up there." I don't think the squirrel heard him, but the words had barely left his lips, when the little animal ran down the tree, struck a bee line for the trenches and leaped in among the men. As he made his way down the line, some one stamped on him and put an end to his race for life. I regretted his fate, not only on account of his grey uniform, but for the reason that if he was really seeking protection he had found himself the victim of misplaced confidence.

PEDICULUS CORPORIS.

On the evening of June 26, Will Daniel said to me, "Furnish 47 men for picket duty tonight. Lieutenants Blanchard and McLaughlin will go with them. As this is a detail, you will remain with the remnant of the company in the trenches." As Gen. Sherman had not favored us with his confidence, neither of us knew how much, exemption from that service meant for both of us on the morrow. In detailing non-commissioned officers for this detachment, Corp. L. A. R. Reab asked to be excused upon the ground that he had received that day an outfit of outer and under clothing—that by changing the old garments for the new after a thorough ablution he had succeeded in ridding himself of a camp affliction technically known as "pediculus corporis," but usually characterized by a less euphonious title—that picket service in the pits would certainly bring on a renewal of the attack, from which he desired most earnestly to have at least a few days immunity. While he had my sympathy, I was unable to consider his excuse a valid one, and referred him to his commanding officer, who also declined to relieve him. It was possibly fortunate that he failed as he was captured next day and was kept a prisoner until the close of the war, securing in this way exemption from further risk in battle and perhaps a longer lease of life.

In this connection it may not be amiss to say that the Oglethorpes were, perhaps, as cleanly as any company in the service and yet during the last year of the war I do not think a single member was free of this affliction for a single day. It was simply a physical impossibility to get rid of it. Discussing this matter with my friend, W. J. Steed some time since, I made the statement that during our trip to Nashville in the winter of '64, when we had no opportunity to change our underclothing for a month or more, it was our custom before retiring at night, to take our flannel or hickory shirts, close the neck and wrist, suspend them over a blazing fire and hold them there until the air was filled with the odor of frying meat. Steed's reply was, "I think a good deal of you, old fellow, but I advise you never to make that statement to any one who has not unlimited confidence in your veracity." And yet I make it here with as full conviction of its absolute truthfulness as any statement I have ever made in any presence.

And now, bidding the "pediculus corporis" adieu with a great deal of pleasure, I ask the reader's attention to another theme.

BATTLE OF KENNESAW

The 47 men detailed for picket on the evening of the 26th, went to their posts with seven other companies from the regiment, with no premonition of what was in store for them on the coming day. There was the usual desultory firing during the night, but the sunrise salute on the 27th was not confined to a single gun. Every battery fronting Hardee's corps and French's division, joined in the chorus. The cannonade was heavy and continuous until 8 a. m., when the Federal bugles sounded the advance. As the assaulting column approached our skirmish line, the pickets covering the divisions of Cheatham, Cleburne and French retired to the trenches, where the enemy met with a bloody and disastrous repulse. In Walker's front their approach was hidden from view by a dense forest growth, except on the extreme right adjoining French, where the pits running across an open field, were held by Co. C, of our regiment. This company had retired with French's pickets, leaving a vacancy in the line. The Oglethorpes were in reserve, and Maj. Allen, misled by Capt. Buckner as to the situation and ignorant of the fact that the attacking column had already reached our skirmish line, ordered the company into fill the gap. Gallantly led by Lieutenants Blanchard and McLaughlin, they advanced at a double quick step and on reaching the open field were met by a murderous fire both from the front and flank, for French's deserted pits were already occupied by the enemy. The woods to the left and front were swarming with blue coats. On a portion of the line held by Co. K, they had reached the pit and a hand to hand conflict ensued. Men fought with clubbed muskets. A short-legged Irishman of that company, with the unusual name of John Smith, had his gun seized by a stalwart Yankee and there was a struggle for its possession. The little son of Erin was game, but he was overmatched in strength and shoving his opponent backward as the gun was wrenched from his hands, he said, "To —— with you and the gun too." Lieut. George A. Bailie, of Co. B, had his ear grazed by a minie and his antagonist, twenty feet away, reloaded to fire again; having no weapon but his sword, Lieut. B. decided to emulate David in his contest with Goliath, and picking up a stone he threw it, striking his foe squarely between the eyes and placing him hors de combat for a time at least. Further up the line and near the vacant pits, another member of the regiment, whose name is not recalled, stood loading and firing as rapidly as his teeth could tear the cartridges and his hands could ram them home. His face was cold and pallid and bloodless, but not from fear. Blackened with powder stain, through which the perspiration trickled in streams, his eyes flashed defiance with every flash from his gun, while disdaining the protection of the pits he stood there a perfect demon of war, with no thought save to kill.

And what of the Oglethorpes? They had picked up something too hot to hold. Attacked both in front and flank by largely superior numbers they were in a veritable hornet's nest. They fought bravely to hold their position, but the odds were too great and George McLaughlin, seeing that it was wholesale death or capture, sang out, "Save yourselves, boys." The place was too hot to hold and almost to let go. For two or three hundred yards to the rear was an open field sloping upwards. To retire through this bullet swept as it was at short range, was simply to court death. Obliquely to the rear was a piece of woodland from which some protection could be gained. Most of the men made a break for this. Some of them ran squarely into the arms of the enemy who had possession of the woods, and were captured. Some failed to leave the pits in time and were taken prisoners there. Some ran the gauntlet safely, while some brought to the rear in frame or limb a perpetual souvenir of that warm day. With the first volley as they entered the open field, Lieut. Blanchard was wounded and W. J. Steed fell by his side with a ball through his lungs. A moment later A. M. Hilzheim, who had joined us only a day before, had received a fatal wound, and Wyatt Chamblin had fallen with a shattered leg. When the order to retire was given, W. J. Steed, John Weigle and Charlie Bayliss attempted to make their way to the rear through the open field. Steed had gone but a little way when a ball crashed through his hand. As he slung it in pain, another shattered his elbow and he fell. As he lay there suffering agony from three wounds a fourth ball broke the same arm near the shoulder. A little way off Charlie Bayliss lay dead and John Weigle had fallen with a broken thigh. The Federal line was re-formed in rear of the pits and Steed and Weigle were ordered to come in and surrender. They replied that they were unable to go in, but that if litter bearers were sent out they could be carried in. Just then a shell from one of French's batteries burst over the Federal line and they took to the woods without the ceremony of a formal dismissal. Steed and Weigle took advantage of a temporary lull in the firing and renewed their efforts to escape. Steed was so weakened by loss of blood from his four wounds that he could only rise, stagger a little way and fall, then rest for a time and renew the effort, while Weigle was forced to crawl and drag his wounded limb. In the effort he was shot in the other leg, but was finally reached by the litter bearers and taken to the rear, one of them being fatally wounded as they bore him off. After repeated efforts, occupying an hour or more, Steed reached the haven and swooned away. In this condition he was found and rescued. He still lives, but an armless sleeve furnishes constant reminder of the terrible experience of that June day. Weigle, poor fellow, a model soldier and a brave, true man, died from his wounds.

And now, though it is due to the truth of history, I regret to record the fact, that while these comrades of mine, who had been shot down on the soil of their own State for defending their homes and firesides, were making in bitter agony their heroic struggle for life, Federal soldiers, schooled in Sherman's creed that "War is hell" and that "the humanities of life have no place" amid its horrors, concealed behind trees and under the shelter of rifle pits, were trying to murder these men as they lay maimed and mangled and bleeding and helpless upon the ground. It is not a pleasant picture, and I am glad to be able to shift the reader's attention to another that blooms out in striking and refreshing contrast to this product of Northern civilization. At the same hour and less than a mile away, the attack of Palmer's corps on Cleburne's and Cheatham's divisions met with a bloody repulse and as the Union line retired, exploding shells or paper wrapping from the rifle cartridges, fired the woods where the Federal dead and wounded lay. "Cease firing," rang out from brave Pat Cleburne's lips, and the rugged heroes of Granbury, Govan and Lowry, dropped their arms and leaping the breastworks they hurried out under the summer sun and the fiercer heat of the blazing woods to rescue and save their fallen and helpless foes. Comment is unnecessary and if it were, as a reconstructed citizen of a reconstructed union, I have no heart to make it.

In addition to the casualties already named Ab. Mitchell of the Oglethorpes, lost an arm, and W. W. Bussey, W. B. Morris, Bob Prather, Billy Pardue, Ben Rowland and Randall Reeves were otherwise wounded. L. A. R. Reab, Joe Derry, Willie Eve, Geo. Harrison, Bud Howard, W. Chamblin, Jabe Marshall, Polk Thomas, John Coffin and Lott were captured. George Pournelle's fate was never positively known. Those who escaped thought he was captured and those who were captured thought he escaped. He was the last to leave his pit, was probably killed there and falling in it was thus concealed from the view of other members of the company. He was my friend and messmate, brave and kind and true. Three years' comradeship had drawn us very close together and the mystery of his death has always saddened me.

The pickets were rallied by Major Allen on a line nearer our trenches, but the Federals made no further effort to advance. The brave stand made by our regiment on the skirmish line checked the assaulting column and by 11:30 the battle had ended. Sherman had lost 3,000 and Johnston only 630, one-eighth of it falling on the 63rd Ga. Gen. W. H. T. Walker complimented the regiment on its gallantry, but suggested that it be tempered with a little more discretion.

ROLL CALL AFTER BATTLE.

Few scenes in a soldier's life are touched with sadder interest than the first roll call after a battle. As Orderly sergeant of the Oglethorpes I had to call its roll, perhaps a thousand times, and yet I do not now remember one that touched my heart more deeply than that which closed that summer day at Kennesaw. The voices of twenty-two of those who had so promptly answered to the call of duty a few short hours before, were hushed and silent when their names were called. Some with Federal bayonets guarding them, were tramping to prison dens, perhaps to slow and lingering death. Some with mangled form and limb were suffering more than death, while some with white cold faces turned toward the stars, were answering roll call on the other shore. Standing beside the breastworks on that summer evening, under the shadow of grim and silent Kennesaw, with twilight deepening into night, there were shadows on all our hearts as well, shadows that stretched beyond us and fell on hearts and hearthstones far away, shadows that rest there still and never will be lifted.

UNDER TWO FLAGS.

Some time in '63 there came to the regiment a young and beardless boy, "the only son of his mother and she was a widow." Timid and shrinking, he was assigned to a company in which he had neither friend nor acquaintance, and he soon grew homesick and despondent. He had been my brother's schoolboy friend and in pity for his loneliness I made an effort to secure his transfer to the Oglethorpe's. His captain declined to approve the papers and the effort failed. Frail and unfitted to endure the hardships of a soldier's life, he nevertheless bore up bravely under the constant toil and danger of the Dalton and Atlanta campaign until the battle of Kennesaw was fought. His company was on the skirmish line that day and suffered heavily. When the Federal line had been repulsed and in the hush of the twilight air the roll was called, he was reported "missing," a word that carried with it to many a lonely home a world of agony in those war days.

Two hours later a member of his company came to me and said, "Dick is lying dead between the picket lines. If I can get two others, will you go with us to find the body and bring it in?" Prowling around at night between two hostile skirmish lines in constant expectation of being shot by either side was not a pleasant duty, but I thought of his widowed mother and, and told him I would go. He went away to secure other help, but learned in some way that he had been mistaken; that the dead soldier lying cold out under the starlight was not Dick, but another member of the regiment. A few days later we abandoned the Kennesaw line and I heard no more of my boy friend until the war had ended. Then I learned through returning prisoners that he had been captured at Kennesaw; that under the bitter cruelties of prison life he had grown sick and helpless and was slowly dying; that in his weakness and under the inhuman policy of Grant and Lincoln, hopeless of release by exchange, he was offered a chance of renewed life if he would consent to serve against the Indians, who were giving trouble in the far West. Lee's shadowy line was growing thinner day by day. Hood's reckless raid on Nashville had ended in disaster and the end had nearly come. With the shadow of the grave resting on every prison wall and more, perhaps, from love of mother than of life, he yielded. But the seeds of death were sown too deeply in his boyish frame. The prison horrors, that merit, but find no place on Lincoln's monument, nor Grant's mausoleum, had done their work. A few short months and somewhere under the Western sky, far from home and kindred, the prairie grass was weaving in the summer sunshine, its creeping tendrils over his lonely grave.

Poor, gentle-hearted Dick! Deaths were common, sadly common in those old days but the memory of his fate has never been recalled in all these years without a sense of sadness and of sorrow. My heart has never judged him save in pity and in kindness always, for I am sure few mounds of earth have lain above a purer or a gentler heart.

AN UN-DRESS PARADE.

In active service, brass bands and "dress parades" fell largely into "innocuous desuetude." When a band was seen going to the rear it was considered prima facie evidence that there was a fight on hand, while an order for dress parade dispelled any apprehension of an early engagement. I recall one instance, however, of an undress parade on the firing line and without a brass band accompaniment.

In the early days of July, '64, the Northern and Southern banks of the Chattahoochee formed for a time the skirmish lines of Johnston's and Sherman's armies. One day some of our pickets established with their opponents on the other side a self-appointed truce. No firing was to be done during its existence, and proper notice was to be given of its termination. The weather was warm and a squad of Yankee pickets relying upon the honor of their Southern foes, decided to take a swim in the river. Stripping themselves to the bathing suit furnished by nature, they plunged in and were enjoying the bath immensely. The Confederate officer of the day becoming apprised of the temporary cessation of hostilities, sent a courier down with orders to stop the truce and renew the firing at once. The bathers were in plain view and in easy range of our rifle pits. Notice was given them of the orders and they begged to be allowed time to dress and resume their positions in their own pits. The courtesy was accorded, but their toilets were not made in either slow or common time. There was a hasty run on the bank, a hurried leap into the pits and then the crack of the rifles announced the end of the truce and of the undress parade as well.

RECKLESS COURAGE.

On the same line, on another day, two opposing pickets, who had been taking alternate shots at each other, finally agreed on a challenge given by one and accepted by the other, to leave the protection of their pits and fight to a finish. The gurgling waters of the Chattahoochee lay between them. Standing on either bank, in full view of each other and without protection, they loaded and fired until one was killed.

It was simply a life thrown recklessly away, without reason, and with no possible good to the cause for which he fought. Some weeks later Bob Swain, who had been transferred to our company from the 12th Ga. Battalion and to whom reference has already been made in connection with the raising of Fort Sumter's fallen flag, was on the skirmish line at Lovejoy Station. The Yankee pickets were probably six hundred yards away, but they kept up a continuous fire and their balls would frequently strike the head logs of our rifle pits. So anxious was Bob to avail himself of every opportunity to secure a shot and so utterly reckless of danger, that he refused to enter the pit and remained in an exposed position until he was shot through the head and killed.

Picket firing in war, except when rendered necessary by an attempted advance by one side or the other, is in my opinion, simply legalized murder. The losses sustained in this way can never affect the final result. "Only a picket or two now and then" does not count "in the news of the battle," but "in some little cot on the mountain" the shadow of lifelong grief falls just as heavily on the lonely wife or mother as if the victim had hallowed by his life blood a victory that changed the fate of a nation.

WATERMELON AS A PERSUADER.

During the summer of '64, Aaron Rhodes of the Oglethorpes, fell sick and was sent to the hospital at Greensboro, Ga. Dr. H. V. M. Miller, the "Demosthenes of the mountains," and an ante-bellum professor in the Medical College at Augusta, Ga., was the surgeon in charge.

Aaron's father secured for him a leave of absence to visit his home and at its expiration went to Greensboro to procure an extension, as he was still unfit for duty. Dr. Miller told him that it was impossible to grant the request, as strict orders had just been received to allow no further leaves; that the instructions were imperative and gave him no discretion whatever. Mr. Rhodes argued and pleaded, but the Doctor's decision was positive and final. At the close of the interview, Mr. R. gave the assurance that his son would be sent up at once, and then in taking his leave said, "By the way, Doctor, I brought you those Richmond county melons I promised you when I was here last and they are now at the depot for you." "Ah; thank you," said the Doctor, "and by the way, please say to Aaron, that after reconsidering the matter, he can remain at home as long as he wishes, or until able to return to duty." And Aaron's melancholy days were not "the saddest of the year."

SAVED FROM A NORTHERN PRISON BY A NOVEL.

In July '64, the writer passed through his first and only experience either as prisoner or an inmate of a hospital. Sherman was nearing Atlanta and his pickets lined the northern bank of the Chattahoochee. I had been sick for several days and Dr. Cumming, acting assistant surgeon, insisted that I should go to the rear. With me there went from the division hospital to Atlanta a boy soldier, who did not seem to be over 14 years of age, and I do not think he was as tall as his gun. If not the original of Dr. Ticknor's "Little Giffen of Tennessee," he was certainly his counterpart for he was "utter Lazarus, heels to head." Atlanta was only a distributing hospital. The sick were being shipped to points on the Atlanta and West Point Road. Reports from that section were anything but favorable. Sick and wounded were said to be "dying like sheep." Having no special desire to die in that way or in any other way, if possible to avoid it, I asked assignment to some hospital on the Georgia Railroad. "All full," said the surgeon. "No room anywhere except on Atlanta and West Point Road. Train leaves at 7 o'clock in the morning. Report here at that hour." As I had fully determined not to go on that road I reported at 8 o'clock instead of 7, and a few hours later I was pleasantly quartered in the hospital at Oxford, Ga., where I had spent two years of college life. Four years before, almost to a day, I had left its classic halls little dreaming that I should return to its familiar scenes in sickness and in weariness, a victim of grim visaged war. For many months the college exercises had been suspended and the chapel, recitation and literary society halls were being utilized as hospital wards. At the time of my arrival the ladies and older citizens, who had not been absorbed by the war, felt some apprehensions of a raid into the village by Sherman's cavalry, which was only forty miles away. Among these ladies, however, there was one to whom the expectation of such an event brought no feeling of anxiety. Born and reared in the North, she felt assured that no Union soldier's vandal hand would molest any of her possessions. Asked by one of her neighbors what she proposed to do in the event of their coming she replied, "They'll never trouble me or mine. I am just going to sit down and see the salvation of the Lord." How it looked when she saw it, will appear a little further on.

The old college chapel where I had attended morning and evening prayer during my college course had been converted into a hospital dining room. On July 22, a few days after my arrival, the convalescents were taking their midday meal in this room when the clatter of a horse's feet was heard. There was some commotion outside and the men hurriedly left the table to investigate its cause. It required but a few minutes to size up the situation. A few feet from the door on a horse covered with foam sat a red-headed Yankee in blue uniform and with full equipment. The expected raid had materialized and Garrard's division of Federal cavalry had possession of the town. Most of the convalescents returned hastily to their quarters without finishing their dinner, The writer, not knowing when or where his next meal would be taken returned to the table and replenished his commissary department to its fullest capacity. The raiders scattered through the village, pillaging to some extent private residences, destroying government cotton and in this way burning the home of Mr. Irvine, an old citizen of the place. In due time they reached the premises of the lady, to whom reference has already been made. Her husband was not at home. He was an honored minister of the Methodist church and was considered the champion snorer of the conference to which he belonged. It was said that his family had become so accustomed to the sonorous exercise of his talent in this line that during his absence from home at night, they were forced to substitute the grinding of a coffee mill to secure sleep. I am not prepared, however, to vouch for the absolute accuracy of this statement. Whether on this occasion he had received intimation of the enemy's approach, and emulating the example of other male citizens of the village, had made himself conveniently absent, I do not now recall. His wife, possibly relying on the fact that she was Northern born, or on providential interposition, for exemption from any war indemnity that her blue-coated guests might be disposed to exact, received them courteously and as long as their levy was confined to chickens from the barnyard or hams from the smoke house she managed to maintain her equilibrium. But when, in addition to these minor depredations, they bridled her pet family horse and led him forth to "jine the cavalry," patience ceased to be a virtue. This crowning indignity furnished the straw that fractured the spinal column of the proverbial camel. She rose, in her righteous wrath and in plain and vigorous English she gave them her opinion of the Yankee army in general, and of her unwelcome guests in particular. Her indignant protest was unavailing. The stable was thenceforth tenantless, and as Tennyson might have said, she mourned for the tramp of a vanished horse and the sound of a neigh that was still.

At 3 p. m. the convalescents were formed into line with orders to report to the provost marshal. We had marched but a little way, when a Federal colonel ordered us to disband until 5 p. m. I had borrowed the novel "Macaria" from a Miss Harrison in the village and decided to spend the interval in completing its perusal. I retired to my cot in the college chapel, but somehow the book did not interest me. Visions of a Federal prison peered at me from every page and I gave it up. Having made an engagement to take tea with Mr. Harrison's family that evening, I concluded, if allowed to leave the building, to return the book. Going down to reconnoiter I saw one of our men walk up the street without being halted, and with as indifferent air as I could assume, I followed suit.

Reaching Mr. Harrison's house I found the family anxious and excited. Mr. H., to avoid capture, had concealed himself in the garden. I expressed my regrets to Mrs. H. that I was unable to keep my engagement, as I had another, which was a little more pressing. She insisted that I remain with them until the hour for leaving and I sat down to meditate on the fate that the future had in store for me. When a boy I had often sung the old hymn containing the words:

"Sweet prospects, sweet birds and sweet flowers," but the prospect that loomed up before me that summer afternoon had no flavor of sugar or honey and, as I now recall it, not even a trace of sorghum molasses to shade its bitterness. As I sat there on the piazza, a Federal brigade passed in a short distance of the house followed by a crowd of contrabands. One of the soldiers came in and took a ham from the pantry without taking the trouble to ask for it. Others passed through the yard on other errands. Nothing was said to me and I made no special effort to attract their attention. I was saying nothing, but I was doing some pretty tall thinking. The idea had occurred to me, either, as Judge Longstreet has said, by "internal suggestion or the bias of jurisprudence," that if I remained quietly where I was, I might be overlooked and I decided to make the experiment. At 5 p. m. the squad of convalescents was re-formed and marched off under guard, passing within a short distance of where I sat. Possibly I felt that my place was properly among them, but I felt no disposition to halt them in order to secure it and my heart grew lighter as the line grew dim in the distance and finally vanished. I have sometimes been accused of being absent-minded, but on that occasion I had reason to be grateful for being absent-bodied.

At nightfall I returned to my hospital cot and slept the sleep of the just. I was in no hurry to rise next morning until at 9 a. m., some one came in and reported that all the raiders had shaken the dust of Oxford from their feet. My escape was due to "Macaria" and for that reason I have always felt kindly towards the book and its author. In my condition a Northern prison would have meant for me slow death and an unmarked grave and these records would have been unwritten or penned by other hands.

A SLAVES LOYALTY.

On the same day Col. H. D. Capers of the 12th Ga. Battalion, was in Oxford recuperating from a wound received in Virginia. Being advised of the approach of Garrard's division, he leaped through a rear window of his residence and taking a country road proceeded to change his base at double-quick step. Learning of his escape a squad of cavalry started in pursuit and on reaching a fork in the road they asked a negro standing by which route Col. Capers had taken. The slave, faithful to his master's friend, intentionally misinformed them and before the error was discovered the colonel was safely hidden.

This act of faithfulness recalls the unswerving loyalty of the race during the horrors of a four years' struggle, whose issue meant their freedom. Suggesting as it does the ties of friendship between master and servant in the old slave days, it furnishes a reason for the kindly interest the South still feels in the remnant of a class that is fading from the earth and may account for the further fact that on this institution, despite its faults, there rested for a hundred years Heaven's benediction and the smile of God.

ONE AGAINST THREE THOUSAND.

Rumors of the raid had been current for several days before its occurrence, and a Mr. Jones, a citizen of Covington, Ga., whose hatred of everything blue had been inflamed by reports of outrages committed by Sherman's army, pledged himself to kill the first Federal soldier who approached his home. Learning that Garrard's division had reached the town, he loaded his squirrel rifle and taking his stand in front of the court house he awaited his opportunity. He had been on post but a little while when a Federal cavalryman approached with a squad of convalescents captured at the hospital. Jones allowed him to come within close range and then raised his rifle. The Yankee shouted to him: "Don't shoot," but his purpose was not to be changed and his victim dropped from the saddle. Reloading his rifle and changing his position to another street a second squad of prisoners came by and again his rifle brought down its game. Reloading the third time he intercepted a platoon of cavalry and fired into it, wounding two of them. They captured him, shot him to death and then beat out his brains with the butts of their rifles. He doubtless anticipated such a fate and went coolly to certain death with no hope of fame and with only the satisfaction of getting two for one.

Geo. Daniel, a Confederate quartermaster, chanced to be at home on furlough in Covington on the same day. He had been out bird hunting that morning and on his return was captured by the Yankees, who enraged by the killing of two of their men by Jones, determined to shoot Daniel simply because he was found with a gun in his hand. His protest that he was out for no hostile purpose availed him nothing. He was ordered to face his executioners and an effort was made to bind a handkerchief over his eyes. He drew it away and said, "No, a Confederate soldier can face death without being blindfolded." The rifles rang out and he fell, another victim to the humane influence of Northern civilization.

A BRAVE CAROLINA MAIDEN.

During my stay at the Oxford hospital a number of ladies who had refugeed from Charleston, So. Ca., were making their home in the village. Among them was a Miss Fair, a beautiful girl with a wealth of wavy brown hair. An ardent Southerner and anxious to benefit the cause she loved, she had determined to visit Sherman's army around Atlanta as a spy, bringing out such information as she would be able to procure.

The raven locks were sacrificed, the face and hands were died, a cracker bonnet and homespun dress were donned and supplied with a basket of parched ground peas she tramped around the Federal camps, keeping her eyes and ears open. Making the trip safely, she returned to Oxford and mailed a letter to Gov. Brown, giving him the information she had obtained as to Sherman's force and plans. When Garrard's division entered Oxford, this letter was in the post office and was captured with other mail matter. It was read by the raiders after they left the town and a squad was sent back to search for the fair writer, but fortunately she was securely hidden in the attic of Mr. River's home, while her father was concealed in a well on the premises. Few braver acts have been recorded of grim visaged warriors than the daring feat accomplished by this fair-faced daughter of the South.

A GEORGIA "HOSS."

While the raiders were in possession of the town, one of them belonging to a Michigan regiment rode up to the gate of the home where this girl was staying. The lady of the house was sitting on the porch and the cavalryman saluted her with the remark, "See what a fine Georgia "hoss" I have." "Yes," she replied, "one you stole I suppose." Turning to her ten-year-old son standing by the soldier said, "Here, boy, hold this "hoss." "I'd see you at the d—l first," replied the little Confederate. This boy, now a middle-aged man, tells me that it was his first and last use of improper language in the presence of his Christian mother, and that for some reason she failed on that occasion to administer even a mild reproof.