During our first march the boys began to pick up from the fields various articles that they considered valuable as relics, intending to carry them home. Bayonets and cannon balls seemed to be favorite articles for collection. After carrying them for a few miles they began dropping them one by one. We found out in a very short time that the less we had to carry the better we could march. I was fortunate in bringing home, and still have my cap box, eagle plate, visor of my cap a tin flask and testament and hymn book. A testament and hymn book was given to every soldier. But the most prized is the engraved and engrossed card of thanks given by the president of the United States, under seal of the Government, and signed by the martyred friend of every Union soldier, Abraham Lincoln. A captain in our regiment brought home a beautiful sword that belonged to one of Mosbys’ men, and was found on the field after the fight at Berryville, Va. It was a beautiful piece of work, ivory hilt, gold mounted, with a scabbard inlaid with gold and silver designs. It was highly prized by the captain, and no doubt would be more highly prized by the man who lost it at Berryville. CONCLUSION. The hundred days service was hard, but it had a humorous side. Many were the pranks played by the boys. Many pleasant hours we spent together, and our experiences are told and laughed over today. At Fort No. 1 we had our own string band, and every evening we had dancing or singing led by Captain Peabody or Lieutenant McKee, some played cards, others went down into the city taking in the markets, theatres, etc. At one time down town a gentleman asked some of us, “Boys, what regiment do you belong to?” We answered, “The 149th Ohio.” He mused awhile and said, “One hundred and forty nine, that means a hundred and forty nine thousand, my goodness boys do men grow on trees in Ohio?” When we left Baltimore our hardships began, the first day’s march nearly used us up, starting from Washington at noon, we crossed the Potomac at Edwards Ferry at 5 o’clock, our feet were blistered as we hobbled along, the first night we sank to rest, a tired, discouraged body of men. Our accoutrements were heavy, our guns a burden, but a canteen filled with water seemed heaviest of all, the string over the shoulder felt like it would cut clear through. Our appearance after two or three marches would have made Rip Van Winkle on awakening look like a dude in comparison. We were ragged, tattered and torn, our shoes worn out, and the sacred soil of old Virginia was ground into our system, from the dust that we continually lived in. We thought the turnpikes of the Shenandoah valley were the hardest in the world. But they were not too hard to sleep on, when the weary soldier dropped in his tracks, the moment a halt was made. I have seen the men marching sound asleep only awakened when their heads came in contact with the tail board of the wagon in front.