As we marched more than 800 miles in this campaign, and as a record of these movements would probably interest only my old comrades, the general reader has my cheerful permission to skip the following condensed extracts from my journal and to turn his or her attention to the special incidents which succeed them. On Sept. 8, '64, two days after the enemy had abandoned our front at Lovejoy Station, we moved up to a position one mile above Jonesboro, remaining there ten days. On the 18th we moved to Fairburn and on the 19th to Palmetto, where we fortified our position and remained until the 29th. Gen. Mercer having been assigned to another field of duty, Gen. Smith, on the 25th, assumed command of our brigade. On the 26th President Davis reviewed the army and on the 28th Gen. Hardee, having asked to be relieved, took leave of his old corps and Gen. Cheatham was made corps commander. On the 29th we began our northward march for the purpose of destroying Sherman's line of communication, passing by easy stages of ten to twenty miles a day, over the ground we had traversed in the recent campaign and reaching the vicinity of Dalton, Ga., on Oct. 13th. Here we destroyed three miles of railroad track, burning the cross-ties and bending the rails by laying them across the burning ties and twisting them around the trees that stood near the track. After capturing the garrisons at Dalton and Tilton, and tearing up a section of the E. T. & Ga. R. R., we left on the 14th for Gadsden, Ala., en route to Nashville. Hood had decided to abandon the plan of campaign mapped out by President Davis and himself and to advance into Tennessee.

Passing through Villanow, Lafayette, Alpine and Blue Pond, we arrived at Gadsden Oct. 20th. Resting here a day we are off again and for four days are tramping over the arid stretches of Sand Mountain, reaching the vicinity of Decatur, Ala., on the evening of the 26th. My journal for that day has this entry: "March delayed by bridge falling in. Very muddy tramp after nightfall. Slept under a corn crib." Two days later it has this entry: "Two ears of corn issued to each man as rations."

Decatur was occupied by a Federal force and after some skirmishing on the 27th and 28th we resumed our march, passing through Courtland on the 30th, Tuscumbia on the 31st and camping near the Tennessee river on the evening of that day. Here we remained until Nov. 13th, when we crossed the river on a pontoon bridge and camped near Florence. On the 14th we fortified our position and on the 19th Hood began his march to intercept Schofield in his effort to unite with Thomas at Nashville. Our brigade was detached to ferry the wagon train across the river and on the 20th we tramped 12 or 14 miles through a driving snowstorm in a bitterly cold wind to reach Cheatham's Ferry. I recall the fact that my face became so thoroughly chilled that the snow that fell on it failed to melt. After a week's work at the ferry, we left on the 28th in charge of the wagon train to rejoin our command. On Dec. 1st we struck the Nashville turnpike and on the 2d received our first information of the battle of Franklin, which had occurred Nov. 30, and in which our division had suffered so heavily. Passing through Columbia and Spring Hill on the 3d and Franklin and the battle ground in its front on the 4th we rejoined our division near Nashville on the 5th. Next day the Oglethorpes were on the picket line, were relieved on the 7th and on the 8th our brigade was ordered to report to Gen. Forrest near Murfreesboro. Under Forrest's direction the 9th and 10th were spent in tearing up railroad track encased in snow and sleet, terribly cold work.

Two days' rest with the thermometer at 9 degrees and on the 13th we are again destroying railroad track near Lavergne. On the morning of the 15th our brigade and Palmer's started out under Forrest to capture a Federal supply train. Fording Stone river and marching 10 or 12 miles in the direction of Murfreesboro Forrest is halted by an order from Hood to hold himself in readiness to go to his aid, as the battle of Nashville was in progress. Next day we moved back to the Nashville turnpike to await the issue at Nashville. During the night Forrest received news of Hood's defeat and with it orders to form a junction with the retreating army at Columbia.

As the details of our march to that point, of our assignment to the rear guard and of the retreat to Corinth, Miss., will be given in succeeding sketches, it is unnecessary to duplicate them here.

A CHRISTMAS DAY WITH FORREST.

It was the winter of '64, and to those of us who wore the grey it was likewise the "winter of our discontent." The hopes of the Confederacy were on the wane. The clouds that hung above it had no silver lining, free or otherwise. Sherman was "marching through Georgia," leaving in his wake the ashes of many a Southern home. Hood's reckless raid on Nashville had ended in disaster and his ragged battalions were making tracks for the Tennessee river, (some of them with bare feet) at a quickstep known to Confederate tactics as "double distance on half rations." The morale of the army was shattered if not destroyed. If the soliloquy of a gaunt Tennesseean as he rose from a fall in the mud on the retreat fairly represented the sentiment of his comrades, it was badly shattered. He is reported to have said: "Ain't we in a —— of a fix, a one-eyed president, a one-legged general and a one-horse Confederacy."

The Oglethorpes had fortunately escaped the butchery at Franklin against which Forrest had so strongly protested. As this immunity was due to our having been detained with Smith's brigade to ferry a salt train across the Tennessee river, salt had literally "saved our bacon."

After rejoining the army, we had been again detached to operate under Forrest near Murfreesboro and in this way had missed the rout at Nashville. Aside from these immunities the campaign had been one of exceptional hardships. The weather was bitterly cold and our wardrobes were not excessively heavy. The writer wore a thin fatigue jacket, with no overcoat and slept under a single blanket with the thermometer at nine degrees above zero. For a week prior to the retreat we had been engaged in the pleasant pastime of handling with ungloved hands, railroad ties and rails encased in sleet and snow. In addition to these hardships our commissary department was but illy supplied. And yet I cannot recall a single complaint made by a soldier during that campaign. It is my deliberate conviction, based upon this and similar evidence, that the Confederate soldier fought harder on shorter rations and grumbled less under greater privations than any soldier in history. The battle of Nashville opened on the morning of December 15th and for two days, thirty miles away, we listened to the thunder of the artillery and anxiously awaited the issue. At 1 a. m. Dec. 17th we were aroused to begin the longest, hardest forced march of our four years' service. Columbia, the point of junction with Hood's retreating army, is sixty miles away and we have to make it in forty-eight hours or run the risk of almost certain capture by a force ten times our own. It is cold, dark and raining—a dreary combination. The roads are a mass of mud and before we have tramped a mile one of my shoe strings breaks, leaving the shoe imbedded six inches deep in the yielding soil. Fishing it out, I resume the march with one bare foot, but the rocks in the mud cut and bruise it at every step and I am forced to stop for repairs. Taking the strap from my rolled blanket, slits are cut in the flaps of the shoe, the strap is buckled around so as to hold it in place, and I hurry forward to rejoin my command. For twenty-one hours we plow wearily through the mud, camping at 10 p. m. after marching 35 miles. Dr. McIntyre, in one of his Lyceum lectures, says that he had no proper appreciation of either absolute silence or absolute darkness until he stood within the central chamber of the Wyandotte cavern. If he had tramped with Forrest that winter day he would probably have added to his experience an adequate conception of absolute fatigue.

Five hours' rest and we are again on the march, but with slower step, for the strain of the previous day has told on the boys. In the early morning we halt to rest and I breakfast on an ear of corn picked up by the roadside, smearing it with black grease scraped from the bottom of my frying pan. About midday Forrest dismounts a number of his cavalry and gives up his own horse for a time to help the "barefoot" brigade along. By 10 p. m. we have made 25 miles and are completely fagged. Only five of the thirty Oglethorpes reach camp that night, Dick Morris, the writer, and three others whose names I do not recall. Dick is short-limbed, but he has the grit and the habit of getting there. On reaching Columbia we are assigned to the rear guard under Forrest and Walthall, who are instructed by Hood to sacrifice every man in the command if necessary to ensure the safety of his army. Manning trenches half filled with snow and holding the enemy in check for a few days so as to give Hood a fair start in the race, we begin our retreat Dec. 22 and on Christmas Eve camp near Pulaski, Tenn. Coiled up in a single blanket on the cold, bare ground, no visions of Santa Claus nor hopes of a Christmas menu on the morrow brighten our dreams.

Early Christmas morning we are gathered around the camp fire awaiting orders to march. Frank Stone, tall and thin, so thin that Charlie Goetchius had advised him always to present a side view to the enemy, as a minie ball would never reach his anatomy in that position, ambles up on a horse he had secured from one of the cavalry. Frank had tried manfully to keep up with the procession. Half sick, his shoes worn soleless and his feet lacerated and bleeding, he had marched when every step was agony and had crawled over the rocky portions of the road on his hands and knees until human nature could endure no more. Fortunately one of Forrest's cavalry gave him a lift that saved him from a Northern prison. Frank had no saddle and to supply that need the boys had piled his steed with blankets to a depth of five or six inches. As he rode up his eye fell on a lot of cooking utensils that had to be left for lack of transportation, and turning to Will Daniel he said, "Lieutenant, hadn't I better take along some of these?" Gen. Forrest was standing a few feet away, grave and silent. Attracted by Frank's question, he turned and inspecting the blanket outfit for a moment he said, "I think you've got a —— sight more now than you're entitled to." Frank made no reply, but the criticism was thoroughly unjust for no truer, braver soldier wore the grey.

The bugle sounds and we are again on the march. About midday we halt on the summit of a ridge with an old line of breastworks skirting its crest. Glad to have a rest we adjust ourselves to take advantage of the respite, when the ominous "Fall in," "Fall in" comes down the line. The ranks are hastily formed, the trenches are manned and Morton's battery is planted a short distance in their rear and commanding the road. Our regiment is placed as a support for the battery and as we line up, Forrest passes us on foot going to the front in a half bent position. Reaching the trenches he watches the advance of the enemy for a few minutes and then hurries to the rear. In a moment we hear the clatter of a horse's feet and the "Wizard of the Saddle" dashes by at half speed, riding magnificently, his martial figure as straight as an arrow and looking six inches taller than his wont, a very god of war, yelling as he reaches the waiting ranks: "Charge!" "Charge!" "CHARGE!" Over the breastworks flashes a line of grey and down the slope they sweep, yelling at every step. The captain commanding our regiment is undecided as to his duty, but finally orders us to retain our position in the rear of the battery. Just then Gen. Featherston rides up, "What regiment is this?" "63rd Ga." "What are you doing here?" "Supporting this battery." "Battery the d—l. Get over them breastworks and get quick," and we "get." But the skirmish is soon over. The Yankees have fled, leaving a piece of artillery and a number of horses in our possession.

We hold our position until late in the afternoon, when "Red" Jackson, with his cavalry, relieves us and we resume the march. As we are filing off the enemy reappears and the cavalry carbines are waking the echoes. We are directly in the line of fire and the hiss of the minies does not make pleasant music to march by. But Jackson repels the attack and we have no further trouble with our friends, the enemy. Night comes on and if there was ever a darker or more starless one I can not place it. Tramping, tramping in the cold and mud and darkness, companies and regiments are all commingled and no one knows where he is, or where he ought to be. Too dark to see the file next in front, we walk by faith and not by sight. Elmore Dunbar was carrying the colors and but for his occasional whistling imitation of the bugle call in order to let us know "where he was at," our regiment would have lost in the darkness all semblance of its organization. I can not well conceive how a larger share of unadulterated physical comfort could have been compressed into the five solid hours for which we kept it up.

At 11 p. m. we are ordered to halt, and camp near Sugar Creek. The sound never was more welcome, nor fell more sweetly on our ears than on that Christmas night. Dinnerless and supperless and completely worn out we hailed it with almost rapture for it brought the promise of rest and sleep. Of all the Christmas days that have come to me in life, only this stands out in gloomy prominence as utterly wanting in every element of the season's cheer and gladness. Yet looking backward through the mists of more than thirty years, recalling all its dangers and discomforts, its toil and weariness and hunger, I would not if I could blot that day's record from my memory, for o'er its somber shadows fell and falls today the light that comes to every true heart in the path of duty; while gilding all its gloom there comes across the waste of years a vision of the knightly Forrest, the bravest of the brave, for as he rode the lines that day, the light of battle in his eye and the thunderous "Charge!" upon his lips he rode into my heart as well, the impersonation of chivalry, and rides there still.

CLOSING DAYS OF THE CAMPAIGN.

Early on the morning of the 26th the Federal cavalry came within range of our camp during a dense fog. A volley scattered them and our cavalry drove them back for two miles.

Holding our position for two hours, and no further advance being made by the enemy, we resumed the march, camping at night near Lexington. A march of 12 miles on the 27th brought us to the Tennessee river, which had already been crossed by Hood with his army and wagon train. During the night, in expectation of an attack by the enemy, we were moved into a line of breastworks which had been vacated by Loring's division, but we had seen the last of our blue-coated friends for that campaign. Crossing the river on the 28th we found on its Southern bank and near the end of the pontoon bridge, 10 or 12 dead mules, and among them three or four grey specimens of that much abused animal. I had heard when a boy that a grey mule never died, that they were gifted with a sort of equine immortality. And now this dogma of my early days found its complete subversion, for these were not only dead, but as Gen. Jno. C. Brown said to us in North Carolina afterwards, when asked as to President Lincoln's death, they were "very dead." Unable to resist the force of this absolute demonstration of the fact, I have always believed since that a grey mule could die, though if further personal evidence were demanded I would be unable to produce it.

After crossing the river and without stopping to hold a post-mortem examination on these faithful animals, who robed in grey had died in the cause, we set out to rejoin our division at Corinth, Miss. Passing through Tuscumbia Bartow and Cherokee, we reached Birnsville, Miss., on the evening of Dec. 31st. Here in the waning hours of the dying year, after tramping eight hundred miles in absolute health I lay down and had an old-fashioned Burke county chill. Lying by a log-heap fire through the long watches of the winter night, my changes of base in the effort to keep the chilly side of my body next to the blazing logs were almost continuous. My old comrade Joe Warren, whose stalwart frame in company with Jim Thomas, Bill Jones and Eph Thompson graced the leading "file of fours" in this campaign was wont to say that a certain brand of whiskey had "a bad far'well." So the closing year had for the writer at least "a bad far'well." The New Year found me unable to travel. Lying over until Jan. 2d, in company with several other invalids, I secured a seat on top of a dilapidated box car. We had ridden only a mile, when the conductor fearing the concern would collapse and kill us all, kindly invited us to step down and out. Complying with some degree of reluctance I shouldered my gun and after a tramp of fifteen miles rejoined my command at Corinth, Miss., where the shattered remnant of Hood's army had gathered.

After the death of Gen. W. H. T. Walker, in July, '64, our brigade was assigned to Pat Cleburne's division. In his younger days he had served in the English army and had probably imbibed his ideas of military discipline from that service. On Sept. 26, '64, near Jonesboro, Ga., the army was reviewed by President Davis and in the afternoon of that day our regiment was ordered to appear at Cleburne's headquarters for inspection. The men had received no intimation of the order and some of the companies were not in a very cleanly condition either as to dress or arms. Soap was scarce and but little time had been spent on their toilets. The inspection proceeded without comment from Cleburne until the company commanded by Capt. Joe Polhill of Louisville, Ga., was reached. Cleburne looked over the ranks with his keen Irish eyes as Capt. Dixon inspected the arms, and then in a tone indicating some degree of disgust, said, "Attention company! Shoulder arms. Close order, march. Right face. Forward by file right—march. Go off and wash yourselves," and the regiment was ordered back to its quarters. Will Daniel, jealous of the reputation of the Oglethorpes, who had not been inspected, addressed a note to Gen. Cleburne protesting against the implied reflection on his company, to which the General replied that no reflection was intended where no inspection was made. In justice to Capt. Polhill and his company it is only proper to say that at a subsequent inspection next day they redeemed their reputation.

PARTING WITH HARDEE.

On the displacement of Gen. Johnston in July, 64, Gen. Hardee, as the ranking lieutenant general in the Army of Tennessee, felt aggrieved at the promotion of Gen. Hood above him, but was too patriotic to ask for an assignment to other fields while his lines were facing the enemy. At the close of the campaign he did prefer this request and on Sept. 28 took leave of his old corps. Many of them had followed him from Shiloh to Jonesboro. His almost unbroken success as brigade, division and corps commander had given him the title of the "Old Reliable." Even at Missionary Ridge his corps held its line and on a portion of it, at the suggestion of Gen. Alfred Cumming, made a counter charge, driving the enemy from their front. At Ringgold Gap and in every assault upon his lines during the Dalton and Atlanta Campaign Hardee had repulsed the attacking column, with the single exception of Jonesboro, where ten lines of battle had been massed against Govan's thinly manned trenches. For these reasons his old corps was loth to give him up. On the evening before his departure large numbers of his command went over to bid him good-bye. In a simple and touching address he expressed his deep regret at parting from those with whom he had been associated so long, but said that he would be with them in spirit if not in person and hoped they would always sustain the reputation they had so gallantly won. "I leave you," said he, "but I leave you in good hands, Frank Cheatham's. Frank and Pat go well together. If Frank fails you, you have Pat to fall back upon." Just then a soldier, who had climbed a tree and was sitting on a limb 20 feet from the ground, sang out, "Yes, General, and Crazy Bill ain't far off," alluding to Gen. Bate. The scene was a very affecting one and after speeches by Gen. Gist and Gen. Capers of So. Ca., closed with appropriate music rendered by the band.

GEN. BATE AS A POET AND WIT.

The allusion to Gen. Bate in the preceding incident recalls an address made by him Oct. 21, '64, at Gadsden, Ala., where we had halted for a day on our trip to Nashville. On the evening of that day the officers were serenaded by the army bands and responses were made by Beauregard, Cleburne, Clayton and Bate. The last sparkled with eloquence and wit and was the gem of the evening. Gov. Brown of Georgia, had issued an order exempting a goodly number of citizens of conscript age in each county from military service for the purpose of raising provisions for the army, sorghum being named as one of the products to be so used. This order had created a feeling of resentment in the minds of those at the front and Gen. Bate, in voicing this sentiment, and in criticism of Gov. Brown's action, impromptued the following parody on Campbell's downfall of Poland:

Gen. Bate's bravery as an officer equalled his wit as a speaker, but his division had been unfortunate in several engagements and other troops were disposed to guy it, saluting it as it passed them with, "Lie down Bate, we are gwine to bust a cap" or "scorch a feather," and such like sallies of so-called wit. Our regiment had indulged in this pastime to some extent and this fact seems to have come to the knowledge of the General. At the battle of Bentonville in March, '65, we were assigned to Bates' corps. In the early morning an assault was made on Govan's brigade, on our immediate left, and as we were without breastworks we were ordered to lie down. As we had not been on the firing line for some time and the whistle of the minies had grown a little unfamiliar, we obeyed the order very promptly, lying as flat as possible without imbedding ourselves in the ground, and in the case of Frank Stone and the writer this was pretty flat. Gen. Bate rode up to our line and asked, "What command is this?" "63rd Ga.," was the reply. "Why, boys, you lie mighty close. I came very near riding over you without seeing you. Never tell Bate to lie down any more," and we didn't.

PAT CLEBURNE AS AN ORATOR.

Gen. Cleburne was a better fighter than speaker, and yet his oratory was sometimes very effective. Of his address on the occasion above referred to I recall but a single sentiment uttered by him. After referring to the outrages committed by Northern troops on Southern soil he said, "I am not fighting for right, I am fighting for vengeance." Of another address delivered by him on the same day I retain a more vivid recollection. Two soldiers of our brigade had appropriated a hog belonging to some citizen living near Gadsden, and the matter was reported to Gen. Cleburne. The brigade was ordered out and formed into a hollow square facing inwards. The two culprits were brought in under guard and placed in the center of the square and then Cleburne and his staff rode in. With the culprits before him and in the presence and hearing of the entire brigade he for fifteen minutes abused and demeaned and shamed them until I think they were thoroughly reformed on that particular line of moral depravity. On the march, some days later, the road we were traveling changed direction abruptly to the right. A corn field lay on that side and a number of the boys, with the view of shortening their tramp that day, leaped the fence and took the hypotenuse of the triangle rather than walk the longer distance represented by the other two sides. Gen. Cleburne, who was riding at the head of the division, probably suspected such a result and when he had reached the corner of the field where they would come out he stopped his horse and quietly awaited their coming. As they reached the road, singly or in pairs, the General gave them a brief but pointed lecture on the sin of straggling, and to impress it more forcibly on their memories he told them in his suave Irish way that they could each take a rail from the fence and carry it on their shoulders for the next half mile. It was a new, but not a pleasant form of traveling by rail. If my memory is not at fault one of the Oglethorpes had the honor of membership in the rail squad that day, and probably has still a feeling recollection of the incident. He was something of a vocalist in those days and was wont to enliven the march with the tender strains of "Faded Flowers," "The Midnight Train," "Benny Havens Ho," and other popular musical selections, but on that day his lyre was voiceless and all its music hushed.

HOOD'S STRATEGY.

This incident has no reference to Gen. John B. Hood, whose strategy in this campaign was apparently conspicuous only by its absence. It refers only to Private Hood of the Oglethorpes, who joined our ranks in '63 or '64, probably at Thunderbolt. As I recall his personality, he was an undergrown youth of sallow complexion and uncertain age. On our march to Nashville he grew sick or tired, and stopped at the home of a citizen to recuperate. Some days later a squad of Yankee soldiers stopped at the house, and Hood, deeming prudence the better part of valor, dropped his grey uniform and donning a suit belonging to the son of his host, passed himself off as a member of the family. While chatting with the visitors one of them said to him, "Well, Bud, haven't they got you in the army yet?" "No, sir," said Hood, "and they ain't agoing to either." "That's right, my boy," and with Hood's assurance that he had no idea of "jining," they bade him good-bye and went their way. Some weeks later he rejoined us, congratulating himself on the success of his strategy.

A LUCKY FIND.

While ferrying the army train across the Tennessee river, the flat in charge of Sergeant S. C. Foreman of the Oglethorpes, brought in a box or case containing three hundred pounds of nice dry salted bacon. It was reported to me that they had found it floating down the river and supposed it had been thrown in by the Federal garrison at Florence to prevent its capture by Hood's army. I swallowed the story and some of the meat and had no occasion to question the correctness of the information until Sam Woods told me in '98 that he found it lying in shallow water near the river bank, and George McLaughlin afterwards intimated that it was stolen from the wagon train. Whatever may have been the method by which it came into our possession I remember that it was divided among the members of the company as extra rations. I recall the further fact that my mess secured that afternoon a large wash pot and a supply of corn and boiled up a peck or two of "lye hominy." On the next day we began our march to rejoin the army and for 17 miles, in addition to my gun, bayonet, cartridge box and forty rounds of cartridges, heavy blanket, tent fly and haversack with two day's rations, I carried 6 or 8 pounds of this bacon and a bucket of the hominy. The aggregate weight must have been 50 or 60 pounds, a pretty fair load for a "light weight."

"WHO ATE THE DOG."

This inquiry, while not invested with the same degree of mystery, nor enjoying as large a measure of notoriety as "Who struck Billy Patterson?" nevertheless echoed on many a hillside and enlivened many a camp fire on our trip to Nashville. The incident which gave rise to it occurred soon after we left the Tennessee river on this ill-fated tramp. To prevent depredations upon the property of citizens along the route of our march, a provost guard had been formed, in command of which was placed an officer now living not a thousand miles from Augusta, but who shall be nameless here, partly out of respect to his feelings and partly out of regard for my own. He has warned me that a different course would be followed by an aggravated case of assault and battery and I do not care to put the courts to unnecessary expense.

Stringent orders were issued by Gen. Smith to arrest any man found in possession of fresh meat, for which he could give no satisfactory account. Several arrests had been made and the captured meat had been confiscated and appropriated by the provost guard to their own use, benefit and behoof. To the men engaged in these depredations, justified in their eyes by the shortness of their rations, these captures became a little monotonous and they determined to find some means of retaliation. One day a soldier was seen tramping through the woods with a suspicious looking sack swinging from his shoulder and one of the guard ordered him to halt. Instead of obeying the command he gave leg bail and the guard started in pursuit.

The forager encumbered with the weight of his plunder finally dropped it and made his escape. The sack was found to contain, apparently, a leg of mutton nicely dressed, which was turned over to the officer in command.

In view of this tempting addition to the bill of fare, a brother officer, who has since turned his sword into a spatula and is as well versed now in drugs as he was then in tactics, was an invited guest at the midday meal that day. Ample justice was done to the menu by all concerned and all went merry as a marriage bell until the command had halted for the night and the men, wearied by the day's march, were resting around their camp fires. And then a change came o'er the spirit of their dream. From one end of the camp, up through the stillness of the evening air, there rose a cry, that like of noise of many waters, rang and reverberated to its farthest bounds, "Who ate the dog?" And as its echoes died away, from another camp fire in the same stentorian tones there came the answer, "Lieut ——," naming the officer of the provost guard. And on through the entire evening, at brief intervals and without the stimulus of an encore the program was repeated. And now as there flitted across the mental vision of the officer aforesaid the memory of the mutton chops that had seemed so savory and toothsome, there came to him a dim suspicion that he had been the victim of misplaced confidence. Was it mutton or was it dog? As he debated the question pro and con, he was forced to admit with Shakespeare that "all that glitters is not gold," and with Longfellow, that "things are not what they seem," and with Whittier that—

And now if the spirit of Poe will pardon me,

For weeks and months, and indeed until the war closed, this canine ghost would never down. He was not allowed to forget it. He was taunted and barked at and dogged so constantly that no Lethean waters could wash out the maddening memory. And the bitterness of it all was that the perpetrators of the joke would give no intimation as to the special breed that graced his table that winter day, whether

The size of the ham precluded the possibility of its having been a bench-legged fice, but there was the torturing reflection that it might have been what Mark Twain has termed the Ishmael of his race, the "yaller dog," who if Mark is to be credited, has been "cursed in all his generations and relations in his kindred by consanguinity and affinity and in his heirs and assigns—cursed with endless hunger with perpetual fear with perennial laziness with hopeless mange, with incessant fleas and with his tail between his legs."

These unpleasant reflections were, however, not confined to the officer in command of the provost guard. A part of the meat had been sent to brigade headquarters and it was said that an aide on the general's staff, who had eaten very freely of the dish, suffered on learning of its origin so serious a gastric disturbance that he vomited, as a colored brother once put it, from Genesis to Revelations.

Regretting my inability, for reasons already stated, to answer this inquiry more definitely, I can only say in conclusion as I heard Bob Toombs once say in another connection, "In spite of compromises, concessions and constitutions this question still marches onward for its solution," who ate the dog?

WHERE IS THE OVEN?

Army life is not specially conducive to personal cleanliness, nor to a high regard for the minor proprieties of life. A young lady visiting Camp McKenzie, near Augusta, Ga., during the Spanish-American war, was shocked by seeing a soldier drop a piece of bread upon the ground and after picking it up resume its mastication. If this sketch should meet her eye, that feeling will probably be reawakened and intensified:

During the later years of the Confederate war wash basins in camp were an unknown quantity. The morning ablution, if performed at all, was managed by pouring water on the hands from a canteen. Lieut. Blanchard, I remember, always held his hands in cup shape until they were filled and then dropped one, spilling all the liquid and washing his face with the moistened palm of the other. In the bitter cold and constant marching of the Nashville campaign I am satisfied that some of the boys did not wash their faces nor comb their hair at less than weekly intervals. As evidence of the infrequency of "bath tub nights" for reasons stated, I recall the fact that I lost a calico handkerchief and thought I had dropped it on the march. Some weeks afterwards in removing my outer clothing for the first time after its disappearance, I found it hidden away underneath the back of my vest. On our return to Corinth, Miss., my mess took their underclothing to a lady to be washed and as they had been wearing it a month or more without change, they apologized for its condition. "No apology is necessary," she said, "I have washed some for Forrest's cavalry that was so stiffened with dirt that they were able to stand alone."

How we managed to keep our pedal extremities in a cleanly condition I do not recall save in a single instance and this, it is perhaps not amiss to say, was an exceptional case and not a company custom. A member of the Oglethorpes one day began his preparations for the midday meal. One of the cooking utensils was missing and he sang out, "Where is the oven?" A messmate some distance away shouted back, "Can't you wait till I finish washing my feet in it?" I am not prepared to testify as to the flavor of the bread that day as fortunately, I was not a member of that particular mess.

AMENDE HONORABLE.

It has been my purpose in these records to present the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. It has not been my purpose to do any wrong, express or implied, to any member of either of the human or the canine race. In justice therefore to the truth of history and to the "yaller dog" as well, it is perhaps proper to say that since penning the preceding "dog" sketch, an old comrade has informed me that the "mutton (?) ham" to which allusion was made in that sketch, had its origin in the anatomy of a "brindle" dog and not of one, who as Mark Twain says, "slinks through life in a diagonal dog trot as if in doubt which end is entitled to the precedence." My comrade claims to speak from personal knowledge and not from hearsay testimony, and as his statement has not been induced by the fear of punishment or the hope of reward, its credibility can not be impeached. He says that the dog in question had grown old in the service of his master and on account of age and meritorious service had been placed on the retired list with full pay as to rations, personal care, etc.; that in the enjoyment of the otium cum dignitate attendant upon these conditions he had grown "fat" if not fair and forty; that in an evil hour he was enticed away from the retirement of his home and with malice aforethought slaughtered in cold blood while his juicy hams were nicely dressed to tickle the palates of the provost guard.

As the yaller dog has already had assigned to him as many of the ills that flesh is heir to as he can reasonably bear, it gives me pleasure to make this amende honorable and to relieve him in this special instance of any of the "white man's burden" even as an involuntary particeps criminis in the transaction under consideration. Before giving final dismissal to the subject it may not be amiss to say for the benefit of the hospitable host and the appreciative guest at that midday meal that if, as physiologists contend, every atom of our physical organism undergoes a complete metamorphosis in every seven years of our existence, it should comfort them to know that 28 years and seven months ago by exact calculation, the last lingering trace of canine flavor in their muscles, bones and blood and epidermis likewise had

COURAGE SUBLIME.

In concluding these reminiscences of the Nashville campaign, a campaign so fraught with disaster to our cause, I am glad to throw over them at their close the glamour of an incident that in its display of infinite courage gilds with its glory even the gloom of defeat. In a subsequent sketch I shall have occasion to pay some tribute to the conspicuous gallantry of the color-bearer of the First Florida regiment in our last charge at Bentonville. Under the inspiration of the "Rebel Yell" and the contagious enthusiasm and excitement of a charge men may have made reputations for courage they would not sustain when subjected to the test of "simply standing and dying at ease." This man, however, George Register by name, was tried in both furnaces and came out pure gold.

The incident referred to occurred at the battle of Franklin, Nov. 30, '64. The failure of a staff officer to promptly deliver Hood's order to Cheatham at Spring Hill had allowed Schofield to escape when the interposition of a single division across his front would have resulted in the capture of his army and would have ensured the success of the campaign. And now the Federal army lay at Franklin heavily entrenched while Hood, fretting over the blunder, determined to retrieve it by an assault upon their works. Forrest protested that it would be a useless sacrifice of life, would probably end in failure and offered to flank Schofield out of his position in two hours if furnished a single division of infantry to co-operate with his cavalry. Hood could not be argued out of his purpose to fight and ordered his army into line. Cleburne rode down his lines as his division filed into position and passing an old friend, a captain in the ranks, he noticed that he was barefooted and that his feet were bleeding. Stopping and dismounting he asked the captain to pull off his boots and then requested him to try them on his own feet. In reply to the captain's protest he said, "I am tired wearing boots and can do without them," and then he rode away to lead his last charge. Gen. Granbury, commanding a Texas brigade in Cleburne's division, rode out in front of his men and said, "Boys, two hours work this evening will shorten the war two years." Two hours later, on that short November afternoon, the very flower of Hood's army lay dead or dying in front of the Federal breastworks. Among them lay Cleburne, Granbury, Adams, Gist, Strahl and Carter, six general offices, a larger number than fell in three day's fighting at Gettysburg, or any battle field in the four years' struggle.

Under the murderous leaden hail that swept the open field over which they passed, the First Florida Regiment was ordered to lie down to secure some immunity from the fire that was rapidly thinning their ranks. The entire regiment sank to the ground, save one of their number. The color-bearer, unwilling to lower his flag, yet willing to show his foe how a brave man could die, refused to avail himself of the partial protection which a change in position would bring, and standing erect, calmly faced the storm of shot and shell; faced it unmoved, while seven of the eight color guards lying at his feet were killed or wounded; faced it unflinchingly while the staff he held in his brave right hand was three times shattered by hostile shot; faced it without a tremor while the folds of his tattered flag were thirty times rent and torn by hissing minies or shrieking shell; faced it calmly until the blessedness of night had come to end the carnival of death, and stood there at its close the very incarnation of courage and yet without the smell of fire on his garments or the mark of shot or shell on his grey-clad form.

I know not whether he still survives. I know not whether his radiant deed has found a fitting recognition save in the memory of surviving comrades. But living or dead, famous or forgotten, my hat goes off to you today, George Register, in loving admiration of a heroism that in soldierly devotion to the colors that you bore, crowns you an immortal and rises to the region of the morally sublime.