Commander and Comrades: Those pages that I have here to-night are a continuation of the past, and take in all my recollections in brief; and, in giving you those few more sketches of the incidents and privations of my army life, I will tell you, in my humble way, of an incident that happened shortly after we were driven into Chattanooga. After the Battle of Chickamauga, so many men were told off from each regiment to build up Fort Wood, detailed for fatigue duty. We worked hard that day. An order came around when the day's work was done that General Sheridan was going to give us all a ration of whisky. We fell in in two ranks, with our tin cups, in double-quick time. The whisky came around in buckets, full. It was measured out with a small tin cup emptied into our larger ones. I got my ration and drank it. My brother Daniel was standing in the rear of me. He never drank liquor nor used tobacco. The commissary man ordered him to put out his cup and take his ration. Brother told him he didn't drink any and didn't want any. I turned around quick, and said, "Draw your ration, Dan, and give it to me." He did so, and I was very much pleased to get it. The boys in the line looked over each other's shoulders to see me drink the double ration of whisky, and one said to the other, "My God, I wish I had a brother in the army that didn't drink."

At a place called Buzzard Roost, perhaps better known in history as Rocky Face, the rebels were protected by natural breastworks and could not be driven away from in front. After several attempts a movement was made on their flank by General Kilpatrick's cavalry. The rebels soon discovered the movement and left from our front. At the time that General Howard was viewing through his field glass, Kilpatrick's cavalry were speeding to the rebels' right around by the valley road. He felt something touch him, and looking down he saw a bullet hole through his boot leg, which evidently had been aimed at him by some one in a much higher location than where he was standing, and, turning his glasses in that direction, he discovered a rebel up in a tree. Seeing the movements up there through the leaves, Howard sent after a couple of his sharpshooters. They took in the situation. Mr. Rebel kept very still, thinking perhaps he might not be discovered, but our boys got a bead on him. They let go their sharpshooting rifles. There was an "Oh!" and a scrambling and a shaking of the leaves and branches, and finally down comes the rebel's gun and next himself. Upon examination it was found that he had tied his arm with his handkerchief to a limb of the tree so as to steady himself while he was taking aim. The handkerchief became loose in the struggle, but remained around his arm as he fell.

As we advanced through those natural breastworks of rocks some of our men that were killed were lying just at the opposite side of the rock from the rebels and were stripped of their clothing. When we were advancing on this rocky mountain the rebs pried loose a great many of those large rocks and started them rolling down on us, but we went up another direction, and marched about a week, picketing and skirmishing until the rebels made a stand at Resaca, which was a very hard fight. We advanced in line of battle to within a short distance of the rebels' breastworks, where we halted. There were two cedar rail fences, ten rails high with a stake and rider, right alongside of each other. It was evident that the owners of the land disputed the boundaries, or would not join fences with each other, consequently each one built and maintained his own fence on his own land, just inside the line. We took advantage of that piece of contrariness, however, and soon pulled down both fences and piled them up into one. They made us a fine breastwork. We were in close quarters to the rebels; we could see them plainly and they could see us. I remember in the part of the breastwork where I was we had a thin cedar rail on top. Two rebel bullets struck that rail and went through it and dropped down just as I raised my head from it to fire—a very close call for me. It was very wet weather. The ground was uneven and rough, all mud and slush. When firing ceased at night some of us lay down to sleep, while others stayed on duty in the breastworks. I rolled two dead comrades together where I wanted to lie down and another who was not quite dead was rolled crossways over their heads for a pillow. I slept very comfortably, with the exception of being disturbed once in a while from a hiccough or movement of muscles or peculiar noises coming from my pillow. On the right of us the battlefield took fire and burned a great many of our men, dead or wounded, that were lying there. It was a piece of open land where the grass was very thick the year before, and was neither pastured nor cut off.

A few days previous to going into this fight we went through a very plentiful country. We halted for camp one evening. Some from every command, the same as usual, struck off foraging. They commenced coming in after a while with hams and chickens. I remember by brother Dan and myself asked some one about the hams, and they said you might as well have one, they will be all gone anyway. And so we struck out and soon found the smoke-house. I made a rush in. There was just one shoulder left. I grabbed it, and in going by the house the woman was standing at the door crying, and said that was the last piece of meat, and what would she and her children do now. Brother Dan and I agreed to give it to her. She put it under her bed. We went to camp empty-handed; had plenty to eat of government rations and felt and slept better than if we had taken the meat from the widow.

We had a hard march the next day. When we camped that evening my feet were very painful, with scalding blisters, and as I was very tired I went down to a stream near by, took off shoes and socks, rolled my pants above my knees, sat down on the bank of the stream and placed my feet in the cool, running water. Oh, but it did feel refreshing. I lay down on my back with my feet in that position, placed my hands under my head and fell asleep; was in that position until the cool of the morning began to break on me. I woke up much refreshed and no pain or soreness in my feet.

I remember in marching through Huntsville, Alabama, about 11 o'clock A. M., our band struck up the tune of "Away Down South in Dixie." The regiment was at a right shoulder shift arms, with fixed bayonets. The sergeants walked on the sidewalks, marching right in front, every man keeping perfect step. A woman was sitting on her door step with her elbows on her knees, and holding a pan of potatoes in her hands that she had just strained the water from preparatory to putting them on the fire to cook for dinner. I noticed they were a different kind of potato from what I had ever seen, and politely asked her, "Please, madam, what do you call those potatoes?"

She made answer in a very sarcastic manner, saying, "I don't call them at all; they come without calling." The next sergeant to me, Charles Powers by name, a big, able fellow about six feet two inches in height, raised his right foot, and never losing his step to the music, hit the pan a kick, and pan and potatoes flew out on the street on top of the regiment, at the same time saying, "Now, damn you, see if they'll come without calling." The regiment charged on the potatoes and came to right shoulder arms again with a potato on top of their bayonets, and not one potato was lost. We marched into camp and cooked them, and Charley said to me, "Ford, you are a hell of a man to let that rebel talk to you in that way."

"Well, how could I prevent her talking? I didn't know what she was going to say; but I'll tell you, Charley, I am mighty glad I didn't get that kick."

We were going into camp one evening, and in passing by a farm-house our Chaplain noticed a lot of nice chickens. He called his servant—Sandy was his name for short. "Sandy, here is a quarter, go over there to that house and buy a chicken; we will have a chicken for supper. If they don't want to sell you any of their chickens don't you gobble any; don't you steal any of their chickens, Sandy."

The Chaplain rode away a short distance and called after Sandy, saying, "Now, Sandy, be sure and have a chicken for supper." It is needless to say Sandy got the chicken and the quarter, too.

This Chaplain resigned. The marching and camping out were too severe on his delicate constitution. He was not a very rugged man. Our next chaplain was a drafted man, a wealthy farmer, one of the first men that had the thoroughbred short-horn cattle imported to this state from England. He created an influence over James T. Lewis, then Governor of Wisconsin, and received from the Governor a commission as Chaplain of the Twenty-fourth Wisconsin. The boys did not appreciate this drafted man as a chaplain, but rather took it as an offense to have a drafted man sent down South to preach to them when he should have been sent with a musket. I will say right here that this man did no more good for the Twenty-fourth Wisconsin than Billy Bray, the jackass who to this day stands on the list of drafted men as forming one of the quota of Maryland. The boys became determined to rout him by scaring him and making him think that they might do him bodily harm. We had a flag pole. We hoisted the flag every day and took it down at night. One morning the Chaplain got up after a very pleasant night's sleep, as he told me when he came to my tent, seemingly under great excitement, telling me that there were burglars in his tent last night, and he never knew it until he awoke in the morning, and found his chair, his table, little writing desk and sheet iron heating stove, pipe and all, had been taken from his tent. Being intimately acquainted with me, having known me since I was a little boy, he asked me if I would go with him in search of his stolen furniture. I did. We went up and down every company street, waking them up and inquiring as we went along, but to no avail. No information whatever could we get of the stolen furniture. We gave up the search and came back by regimental headquarters. In passing by the flag pole—it was early in the morning and the flag hadn't been hoisted yet—I happened to look up, and lo! what was there?

"My God, Chaplain, look. What's on top of that pole? Look at your furniture up there."

He looked up and cried out in solemn and fervent prayer, with hands extended upwards, "Thanks be to God on high that it ain't myself that is hanging up there this morning."

There were no arrests made. The Chaplain sent in his resignation. It was accepted.

This Chaplain introduced prayer meeting in Company D's tent one night. We had fire-places in the tents, with chimneys built of mud and sticks on the outside. You could reach your hand to the top of the chimney from the ground. John Mahan was stretched on his bunk; Andy O'Neil had one leg of his pants off, sewing a rip; he had a very long thread in the needle. The Chaplain knelt down close by Andy and asked Mahan if he would not join in prayer. Mahan said he was tired and wanted rest.

"And don't you want me to pray for you?" asked the Chaplain.

"Oh, yes, pray for me all you have a mind to," said Mahan.

The Chaplain prayed. Each time O'Neil put a stitch in his pants, in drawing the thread its full length brought his hand in close proximity to the Chaplain's face. He was seemingly very much interested in repairing his trousers.

The Chaplain asked, "Now, Andy, don't you feel the spirit of God coming within you?"

"No," said Andy, drawing his thread its full length with his hand against the Chaplain's face, "and I don't think it will come while the devil is so close to me." At the same time the boys outside dropped two or three bunches of cartridges down the chimney into the fire inside. R-r-r-r-rapp-zip-zip-zip, went the cartridges like a volley of musketry. The Chaplain sprang from his knees, made a rush for the door and then outside, saying, "Sure enough, I believe the devil is in that tent."

We drove the Confederate General Anderson across the river at a place called Loudon, Tennessee. He burnt the bridge after his troops and supplies had crossed it. The picket lines of both armies were stationed on both sides of the river. An armistice was agreed upon. Firing ceased, so the boys might go in bathing. Every day we would swim out further, and so would the rebels. We came pretty close together one day, so close that we dashed water into each other's faces and ducked one another under the water, and about faced and swam to shore, when a big rebel dived under the water and came up in our ranks and swam to shore with us. He was taken to General Sheridan's headquarters, naked as he was born. They clothed him and sent him to New York, the only chance he said he ever had to get away. Being down South before the war he was held and forced into the rebel ranks; but that stopped the bathing in the river. The armistice was withdrawn. If you would show your face after that you would hear a bullet whistle.

Captain Parsons had charge of the Twenty-fourth Wisconsin at this place. An order came from headquarters for a sergeant to take charge of a detail of men to be sent out in the country with a foraging train of wagons, mules and drivers and wagon master to gather in all the wheat from the farmers' granaries and haul it to a grist mill that General Sheridan had confiscated to grind flour for his army. The order fell on me, because it was my turn to go on detail. I reported at Sheridan's headquarters, and he himself gave me instructions what to do. My detail of men was soon ready, and we started with our wagons and wagon master out to the mill, and the next day commenced hauling in the wheat. I was very much interested in that business, having been raised on a farm. With some of the farmers we had a great deal of trouble to get them to open their granaries peaceably, especially those who were rebels. We ground forty barrels a day. It was a water-power mill. Every night I was offered greenback money for flour, but never took a cent. They would tell sorrowful stories about their little children starving. I would tell them that their little children were of no consequence when compared with the condition of thirty thousand men stationed in Loudon waiting for this flour. "Go and see Sheridan; he may give you some." The owner of the mill was in the mill office in the daytime when the wheat was brought in. I signed the vouchers for the number of bushels of wheat weighed and ground into flour, and that, with the supplies we had, furnished plenty of food. Every farmer that we took wheat from had the miller's signature and mine attached to his order on General Sheridan, and if he proved his loyalty to the Union he got spot cash, or its equivalent, for his wheat. My work being over, I received an order one morning to report at Sheridan's headquarters. We got into camp in the afternoon and formed a line in front of the General's tent. I found him inside and reported. He said, "You have done very well, sergeant; you deserve a promotion. Have your men break ranks right where they are and go to your respective quarters." I did not think any more about it. I simply was glad that I pleased the General and did my duty. In returning to the regiment I found Col. MacArthur in command. I learned that Capt. Parsons would not give up his command of the regiment to MacArthur until he got orders to do so from General Sheridan, which were promptly given.

Liquor was plenty around Loudon, but at very high prices. One man paid $10 for a canteen full. He became disorderly and wanted to shoot somebody. He was court-martialed and sent to Dry Tortugas. I learned afterwards that he was pardoned and came home. The bridge across the river that the rebels burned was rebuilt by government employes with the assistance of the pioneer corps, and we crossed to the opposite side on another campaign. Our regimental bakers at this place turned out several loaves of bread with an old chew of tobacco in the center of the loaf.

From Resaca we followed up the rebel General, Johnston, and came very close to his rear guard at a place called Calhoun, Georgia. We crowded them very closely. The next day Johnston had his advanced troops stop at Adairsville and build breastworks of logs and earth, and located themselves in the houses, while the main army passed through and formed ready for battle. We followed them right up, but we suddenly came to a halt. They were ready for us. Johnston managed his retreat with good generalship from Resaca. We could not budge them. We marched across the road into a field by the right flank, right in front, towards the rebels' left, when Col. MacArthur gave the command "By the left flank, charge." When I was in the act of executing the command I got a broadsider in the left jaw bone. The bullet struck me in the lower angle of the jaw, breaking the bone at that place, and coursed downwards, inside the collarbone, and lodged in the cavity of the chest. Dr. Hasse, our regimental surgeon, treated me on the battlefield. I remember he cut my accoutrements with his knife and left them on the ground, cut the string of my blanket, spread it out and laid me on it.

Our regiment advanced and was stubbornly resisted, but held their ground by inch until the rebels withdrew. A great many of our boys bit the dust that day. It was a very severe fight for the time it lasted, just a few hours. It was estimated that the loss was 500 killed and wounded. Such was rebel General Johnston's fighting tactics on a retreat. He punished his pursuers very severely. General John Newton had charge of our division in the absence of General Sheridan. It was thought at one time during the fight that our side would have to give way, and an order came from headquarters to the surgeons in the field to move their wounded a certain distance to the rear. There were four rebel bullets dropped on my blanket while I lay there. We moved to where there were a lot of small houses and a large mansion. In going along the turnpike road the rebel bullets and cannon balls came fast and lively. This was the trying moment. It was desperate, as I could plainly hear, and very well understood the situation. The brave boys began coming in wounded thick and fast, as the battle raged on. But at last victory was ours. The battle was won; but a high price was paid for it; the loss of life, limb, health and blood. I remember in going to the rear, as ordered, a Union captain was with us. He had his nose shot off, or all but a part of the skin near his forehead, which was holding it from falling. It was swinging on his face like the pendulum of a clock. The rebels sent a cannon ball down the road. As it passed by, this captain turned around, and, with much emphasis, said, "You rebel sons of guns, I hope you will get your belly full before night," and at that instant a rebel bullet took him right in the abdomen and went through his body. He fell dead where he spoke the words. We arrived at our new hospital off the battlefield. Dr. Hasse placed me in a chair on the porch and ran a probe down in my neck.

"Ah, Ford," he said, "the bullet has passed downwards; it is in your chest; perhaps I can find it," and I began to faint away. He pulled out his probe and turned around his canteen, placed it in my mouth and told me to take a swallow. I took hold of the canteen and held it until I had three good swallows.

The doctor took the canteen and said, "Do you think you can stand it now?"

"Yes, doctor, probe away now all you mind to." And he did, and said it was no use in punishing me. He could not locate the bullet, and even if he did, it could not be removed without loss of life; it may never injure me, but he could not tell now what the result might be in the future.

I was assigned to a place to lie down on the floor. I soon fell asleep, and when I awoke my neck, face and breast seemed to be one thickness. Well, I thought I would get up, but no, my head would not rise by my will. I thought if I just had somebody to lift my head for me I would be all right, when, seemingly by instinct, my right hand raised and caught myself by the hair of my head, and I was on my feet.

An order came to the surgeons to send the wounded to Chattanooga. All who were shot in the legs and not able to walk would be carried in ambulances to Resaca and there take the train for Chattanooga. I came under the order of able to walk, as the meaning of that term is applied in cases of emergency, where transportation is limited, as it was in that case. We struck out, a lot of us that had to walk, but soon commenced trudging along according to our strength, until there were hardly two together. Every stream I would cross I would dip my head in the water and then fill my old Kossuth hat full and put it on my head. Arriving at Calhoun early in the afternoon, I stopped at the first house. There were two rebel ladies standing on the porch looking at the wounded as they passed by. I was very weak and wanted some milk, as I could not eat or chew anything, my mouth being nearly closed. By a great many signs and mutterings I succeeded in getting one to understand what I wanted, but she said they had no milk; that there was a Union woman in the next block over there that had two or three cows and she most always had some milk.

"You got hit, did you?" she asked. "Well, we don't like to see you'uns get hurt, but we do like to see you'uns get licked. You'uns killed my true love when you went by here the other day. He stayed behind his command to bid me good-bye and to have a little talk, when you Yankees came onto him and three others of our boys. They ran into the brush down there," pointing in the direction that she wanted me to know, "and there you killed my true love."

I listened very attentively, with my eyes fixed on a picture that she wore on her breast. I recognized the picture and muttered out to her as best I could that if she thought so much of her true love she ought to see about it and have him buried. He was lying down there a little ways from the turnpike road, swelled up as big as a two hundred pounder.

The circumstances concerning my knowledge of this incident are: Those four rebels ran from the brush to a small log-house about fifteen or twenty rods from the road where we were marching, and were firing from their hiding place. A squad was sent out there and surrounded the little log-house. This true love escaped by jumping through the window, and was shot and killed. The other three were taken prisoners.

I made my way to the Union woman in the next block. I saw a dozen wounded men go into the house. Thinks I to myself, "There is no chance there for me to get any milk," but before I reached the house they came out again, and I went in. She was a fine, clever-looking woman, with three little girl children. I made known my wants.

"Yes," she said, "I have plenty of milk for you, although I have been refusing it all day; so many came together that the little I had would do them no good." At the same time she poured the milk out into a cooking utensil and placed it on the stove and said, "As you came alone I have plenty for you; and indeed you need it more than any one who has come in here to-day."

She broke some round crackers into the milk, inquired about my wound, said it smelled bad, took off the bandage, washed it and dressed it with new linen and threw my old bandages out doors. By this time my milk and crackers were cooked. As I could not chew or open my mouth to take in coarse food, she fixed it so it was thin, like gruel; cooled it sufficiently, spread a table cloth on part of the table where I sat, and I felt just ninety-nine per cent. better than when I first entered that house. Her cheerfulness and willingness to do good made me feel so much better that I could not express it by words. I drew that food through my teeth with such force that it did not take a very great length of time to put it where it was much needed for a nourishment.

I will say right here when you found a Union man or woman in the Southern States, you found them as loyal and as true as steel. I was now ready to go on my journey to Resaca. The train was to leave there at 8 o'clock. Before I left Adairsville hospital I changed a $5 bill and gave half of it to a comrade of mine, John Howard, who was shot in the elbow. Twenty-six pieces of bone were taken out of his elbow. Dr. Hasse wanted to cut it off, but Howard said he would rather die with it on than live with it off. The doctor thought possibly that he might save it. The weather was very warm. Gangrene set in. His arm was cut off three times, and the poor fellow, after a long season of suffering, went to the other shore. Changing the $5 bill, which was all the money I had, left me with two dollars and a half in fifty cent shinplasters, as we called that kind of money. In bidding good-bye to my good Union woman, with tears in my eyes I offered her all the money I had. She would not take any. She said it did her so much good to do something for a Union soldier that she only wished she could do more. I took her address and bade her good-bye. Her three little girls followed me out to the gate leading on the sidewalk, and I slipped fifty cents apiece in their little hands. I felt so much better, and my heart was so filled up with the kindness that I received from that good Union woman in the very heart of the Confederate States, that if I had had it I could have given those little ones one hundred dollars apiece as willingly as I gave them fifty cents each. That woman saved my life, for gangrene was beginning to show itself, and I never could have reached Resaca without that nourishment and the cleansing of my wound. I reached Resaca just as the train was pulling out, grabbed hold of the side door of the last box-car and the boys pulled me in while the train was moving quite fast.

It commenced raining very hard and the night was as dark as pitch. Our train jogged along at the rate such trains usually do. We came to an up-grade, when all at once there came a crash and a smash. I was in the hindmost end of the rear car and was jerked up to the front end in a shorter time than you could say Jack Robinson. A trainload of new recruits was coming to the front, the cars being full inside and many on top. The engineer should have stopped at the station and switched until the train with the wounded went by. He paid no attention to the signal and went right ahead to the top of a grade, where he pulled the throttle of his engine wide open and let her go. Jumping off his engine, he made his escape. He was a rebel, and took advantage of his first opportunity to apply his vengeance. It was a terrible sight to look at. Many of the wounded were killed and some of the new recruits and many were disabled. It took till late next day to get fixed up for our destination. There I lost my diary, with the address of that good Union woman that did so much for me at Calhoun, Georgia.

After I recruited up some, and others the same as myself, who were supposed not to be fit for duty within a certain time, we were sent farther north to make room for new-comers. I was sent to New Albany, Indiana, where I remained two weeks, when a general order was issued that all not fit for duty inside of sixty days should be sent to their respective state hospitals. An examination was made by the surgeon in charge, and I was sent to Madison, Wisconsin. After I was a few weeks in Madison I called on Governor J. T. Lewis in regard to my commission. It was then the tenth in order on file in his office, but he would give me one then and there. There were vacancies in my company. I refused to take it. There were others higher in rank than I, and I did not want to jump over them; and, in fact, we came home without a commissioned officer, an orderly sergeant in command of the company, John N. Keifer, who received his commission dated back, as captain, as brave a boy as ever lived to draw saber. Ed. Blake, a corporal in my company, carried a commission in his pocket that he received from the Governor, but never reported for duty as an officer. Such was the honor the old boys had for each other in rank.

I stayed in Madison about two months and could have had my discharge given me by Surgeon-General Swift, medical director of the Western Department, with headquarters at Milwaukee, but would not take it. I wanted to go back and take my chances of coming home with the rest of the boys. I had the use of my limbs all right and could shoot, but had to be very careful how I bit the cartridge. There were six pieces of bone taken from my left lower jaw, and it hurt very much to bite off the cartridge.

My memory now takes me back to my regiment, with which I was in several battles after my four months' absence on account of my wound. And now this brings me to the last battle of Nashville, December 15th and 16th, 1864. We fought the rebel General Hood, who had followed us from Franklin and fortified himself in our front, near Nashville. We marched out to them and made the attack. They held us back. We were relieved by a brigade of colored troops. While we were cooking something to eat the colored troops made a charge on the rebel works and got as far, or to a distance where the rebels had fallen trees towards us, as an obstruction to our advancement. There the colored brigade fired one volley and then lay down. The rebels peppered it to them so thick and fast, they even stood up on their breastworks and took aim at that black cloud, as they called them. We were marched down there again, in double-quick time, the rebels shouting and shooting and waving their hats like so many demons. When they saw us coming for them right through and over the colored troops and tree branches they ceased firing and had their arms stacked when we climbed their breastworks, took off their hats and surrendered, saying, "Hello, Jack; hello, Tom; hello, Jim. Say, Yanks, never send a black cloud to take our breastworks. We were retreating when we saw them coming. When some one said, 'It's a black cloud, boys; let's every man stand fast; never be taken prisoners or surrender to them darkies, or give them our breastworks while there is a man of us left alive.'"

And then we commenced shaking hands with each other. There were some of them who were nearly barefooted, with pants ripped nearly up to their knees; tall, fine-looking, good-hearted fellows, from Georgia. This ended the battles of the war, so far as we were concerned, and old Pap. Thomas drank the health of the old Army of the Cumberland. We stayed around Nashville for some time, got our discharge, and, on the 10th day of June, 1865, broke ranks in Milwaukee. I bought a suit of citizen's clothes for $85 that could be bought to-day for $25.

There was a strong Fenian movement in Milwaukee just about that time, with the object in view of taking Canada. I happened in to Melm's, a saloon where the new Pabst building now stands, if my memory serves me right, and I think it does. There was a big crowd of men in there talking war, Fenians and Canada, all feeling good. Of course, I had a say about the war and other topics of conversation that were sprung into discussion as well as anybody else had, and seemed to interest some of my hearers. They wanted me to get up on a round table near by. There were two or three rows of tables in there. I would not get up on the table. I was taken hold of and placed on the table. Well, I talked a little while, and then came down to war matters. I said the Battle of Stone River lasted seven days and it cost this government nine millions of dollars a day, and asked, "What would we do if we didn't have a government to back us? Do you think we could carry on a war by some one of us having a few dollars in our pockets? Foolish idea; that is your predicament, gentlemen." Of course, that was disparaging the movement, but I did not intend it for that particular purpose. I was simply telling the truth as well as I knew how, when somebody hit me. I jumped off the table, lost my hat in the row and never found it.

I went to Illinois to work as a farm hand for $1 a day for every day in the year, wet or dry, hail, rain or sunshine, board and washing free, and with what money I had saved up, bought a piece of land at twenty dollars per acre, with a mortgage of $1,500 on it, payable in gold coin, but it was paid off with the greenback dollar. I lived on that farm for twenty-six years and brought it to a very high state of cultivation. I sold it out seven years ago, at one hundred dollars per acre, the first $100 acre land that was ever sold in my township, and came to Milwaukee, the scene of my boyhood days. I have been a delegate to state and county conventions and held offices of trust in the township where I lived; but, commander and comrades, I can say to you, with candor, that I never saw an assembly of men that act more gentlemanly with each other, and that I felt more proud of, and that I felt more at home with than I do with the members of E. B. Wolcott Post.