“I can't do anything for you, my son,” said a grayhaired Federal surgeon, who had examined his wound. “Am I dying, Doctor?” “Yes, my son; the wound is fatal.” “Can my head be raised?” “Certainly. Here, boys! bring an overcoat or a blanket.” The old doctor's voice was tremulous and his eyes were moist with tears. A dozen blue overcoats were offered, but only one was needed. This the surgeon folded so as to make a pillow for the wounded Confederate. Tenderly the doctor raided the boy's head and placed it on the overcoat. As he did so the blood flowed afresh from the wound in the breast. “Doctor--picture--mother--pocket--let me see it.” “Yes, my son.” The surgeon took from the boy's butternut jacket a picture of a sweet-faced woman, and held it before the dying soldier's eyes. “Closer, Doctor.” The boy had attempted to take the picture in his hand, but his strength was gone--he could not use his arms. The doctor held the picture against the lips of the youth. It was stained with blood when taken away, but there was a smile on the face of the boy. [Illustration: 0171] “Doctor,” he said faintly, “tell mother I died like a soldier--will you write to her?” “Yes.” The old doctor's tears were flowing freely now. And so were the tears of fifteen or twenty Union troopers who had gathered around the dying boy. “Yes, I'll write--what's the address, my son?” “Mother's name is----” The voice sank to a whisper, and the Federal surgeon placed his ear close to the lad's mouth. “Is what?” “Mother--O, Doctor!--meet--heaven--good-by!” He was dead. “He was so much like my boy who was killed at Antietam,” said the surgeon, as he folded the dead Confederate's hands over the mother's picture. Search was made for a letter or writing that would identify the boy or reveal his mother's address. Only one letter was found in his pocket. There was no envelope; no postmark. It began, “My darling soldier boy,” and breathed the mother's anxiety for the welfare of her son, and the prayer that he would be spared to return and make glad that mother's heart. And the signature--“Your fond and affectionate mother.” Nothing more. There was no time for ceremony; barely time to bury the dead. The boy's body was wrapped in a U. S. blanket and put in a trench hastily dug and hastily filled.