ONE dark, dreary morning, when the rain was pouring down in torrents, a lot of soldiers took refuge in the lower hall of the Manassas House. I soon learned that there were four “boys” from home among them, that they had been out all night, were cold, wet, and hungry, and to my mind, hunger was the worst of all. To me, in those days, a soldier was greater than a king, and is yet for that matter, and I felt that something must be done. I went to my mother, that never-failing refuge in all my childish sorrows and perplexities, and with tearful eyes appealed to her for advice and help. With a smile she said, “Can you not go to Brown, and ask him for something for ‘our boys?’” For it was useless to think of feeding them all, in the then depleted state of the hotel larder. Brown was the steward, and the one being among all the hotel people of whom I stood in awe. But to Brown I went, and, to my delight, he gave me all that was left from breakfast. To the best of my recollection, that lunch consisted of bread, meat and cheese.

I divided it as best I could among the four, whose names I herewith give: George Harmon, V. K. Kelley, Wesley Jackman and J. A. Tulleys. A sorry picture they made, with the water dripping from their faded blue overcoats in little puddles on the floor, the little girl standing in their midst, with sorrow in her heart, because she could not obtain food for the other poor men looking wistfully on. Perhaps not one of the living members of the quartet will remember this little episode in his army life, but that rainy morning’s scene has never faded from my memory. George Harmon has been “mustered out” and lies, awaiting the “bugle call” to the “General Assembly,” in a country graveyard a few miles from town. James A. Tulleys^[1] is a prominent citizen of Red Cloud, Nebraska. The other two are citizens of this place and I see them almost every day.