The whole march had been a pleasure excursion, when compared with the Atlanta campaign. The rebels could never muster a sufficient force of a quality to retard the march of the army. All their boasting of annihilation was simply wind. The fact was they were completely nonplussed, they did not know where he intended to go until he was within striking distance of Savannah. Every morning a squad of men from each command started out under command of an officer, and at night returned with wagons loaded with the best in the land. Hams, hogs, beeves, turkeys and chickens, sweet potatoes, corn meal and flour, rice and honey were gathered for food, and the bummers usually captured teams to haul the provisions in with. My friend O. S. Crandall, of the 4th Minnesota, who was on this march, tells a joke on himself which I will repeat. A brother bummer by the name of Ben Sayers, had made a discovery of some honey while the two were on a picket post. Sayers told Crandall that if he would stand guard in his place he would fill his canteen with honey. To this Crandall agreed and when the relief came around told the officer of the guard that he would stand Sayers’ relief. Sayers filled his canteen full of honey as agreed and all was lovely; honey on hard-tack, honey on dough gods, honey on flapjacks, was in Oscar’s dreams that night as he lay peacefully sleeping beneath the bright moon in southern Georgia. But the next day the sun came out hot and the honey granulated and would not come out. Oscar had evidently got a white elephant on his hands; that honey could not be persuaded to come out, and he was choking with thirst. Seeing a comrade with a canteen he thus accosted him: “Say pard, give me a drink.” Tother Feller.—“Why don’t you drink out of your own canteen?” Oscar.—“I can’t. I’ve got it full of honey and it’s candied.” T. F.—“Why, you poor, miserable, innocent, blankety blanked fool, if you don’t know any better than that you may go thirsty. I won’t give you any water.” Oscar.—“Say pard, how will you trade canteens?” T. F.—“Even.” Oscar.—“It’s a whack.” And Oscar never got his canteen filled with honey again during the remainder of the war. CHAPTER XV. VALE DIXIE.