his men, and they gave it, not so much because it was enforced, as because it was deserved. I don’t think I ever heard him utter a complaint concerning any feature of a soldier’s life, however hard or perilous it might be. The dusty marches along Southern pikes beneath the blazing heat of a summer sun; the cold and dreary tramps of midwinter; the lonely vigils of picket duty; the weary monotony of camp-life—none of these ever extorted from him a murmur. He was always and everywhere the same cheerful, patient, willing soldier; the same kindly, brave and manly gentleman. On the morning of the 19th of September, 1863, our division moved from near Crawfish Springs to the battle-field of Chicamauga. The march was rapid, dusty and exhausting. The thunder of artillery smote the air, and the crackle of musketry at the distant fords told of a closer conflict. The troops that had passed along the road during the night had fired the fences on either side, and they were still smouldering, filling the atmosphere with stifling smoke. When we reached a point near General Rosecrans’s headquarters, we were ordered into the woods to the right, and I halted to give instructions to my regiment as it passed by. Near its center marched the young soldier of whom I have been speaking. As he came up, and halted for a moment to talk, I noted his striking appearance. His clothing was so dusty that it looked more like Confederate gray than Union blue; his face was stained with smoke; he had tied a white handkerchief about his neck, and its loose folds fell down his back; but in his walk and bearing there was no trace of either fatigue or lassitude. His step was even firmer, his bearing more erect, than usual, and his brave eyes sparkled with the excitement of the near-approaching fight. In less than half an hour he was in the midst of it, and all day long, as the battle ebbed and flowed, and the air was turned to powder and smoke, and shells tore through the woods, and the roar of musketry grew so dense that it drowned the thunder of the cannon, his courage and enthusiasm were conspicuously illustrated. At dusk our division was relieved, and he marched his company to the field assigned for our bivouac. Over fifty per cent. of his men had been killed or wounded, but he was unhurt. An hour later, after the command had cooked and eaten a scanty meal, the first since morning, he came to me and asked permission to take a small squad of his company and go out to the front. “I think,” he said, “that I may be able to find some of my boys who are wounded.” I gave the requested permission, but warned him not to venture too far, calling his attention to the constant firing of the picket lines. A bright smile lit up his face as he said: “Oh, I’ll be careful. But that rattle is feeble after the roar of to-day.” And giving his usual quick, graceful military salute, he wheeled and walked away out of the light of the camp-fire into the darkness.