I had tramped back to the rear about three miles, my mind bent on securing anything that would please the heart and eye, or tickle the palates of the brave fellows who had gone to face the enemy and do the real work of our country. About a quarter of a mile to the left of me I espied a covered wagon moving toward the front. I wondered what it was and where it was bound for, as from the frequent halt it made, it seemed the driver was lost to himself. I bore down toward him and found it was a sanitary wagon, loaded with good things sent out by the ladies of the north. The driver was an old man--one of those long, lanky individuals who might be taken for a parson or a horse dealer. He reminded me of the "Arkansaw Traveler." His clothes were of the salt and pepper homespun goods, a little worse for wear and very ill fitting, they looked as if he had lost fifty pounds of flesh since he started from home; his pants were tucked into a pair of old cow-hide boots; his hat was a cross between a stove pipe and a derby; his hair was red, very long and sprinkled with grey; his eyebrows were shaggy, nearly meeting over the nose and hanging down over a pair of faded blue eyes. So wrinkled was his skin that you would think his face was a frozen laugh; a little strip of red hair ran down the side of his face in front of his ears and almost met under his chin; the space left open in his whiskers, evidently an outlet for the tobacco juice that trickled down from each side of his mouth. As I approached he pulled up his mules and called to me in a rather cracked voice, "Say, Major, or Sergeant, or what ever you are, whar's the field hospital?" "Three miles from here," said I, pointing backward. "What's that firin I hear? Ain't no rebs 'round yere, be thar?" "Yes," I replied; "there's a long row of them about half a mile in front of us, and you had better halt right where you are. What's your cargo?" "Wall, I got most anything that is needed by you poor fellows--useful things. I'm sent here by a society called the Northfield First Methodist Ladies' Relief and Sanitary Association. They selected me for my courage to go to the front and distribute this load. But I guess I'll have to go too near that row of rebs if I'd give them out in person. I'll unhitch here and feed my mules. You don't think thar's any danger of them grey-coats disturbing me, do you? I should hate to have all these good things fall into their hands." I inquired what he had, to which he replied with apparent amazement: "Shirts, stockins, bakin' powder, condensed milk, canned apples, peaches, Boston beans, tobacco, hair oil, tooth powder, cathartic pills, Jamaiki ginger, and fine tooth combs----Whoa thar--stop your infernal kickin. Them durned mules are worse than two-year-old heifers."