But the “secesh” part of it was a huge joke with Dan, and was but a bit of ironical humor on his part. There was nothing Dan wouldn’t do for “Little Missy,” as he always called me. I had developed a mania for collecting empty cigar boxes, and he would scour the town and camp to secure them for me. I was very proud of my collection, and I had them of every size and shape, stacked up on either side of the bureau until they reached the top of the looking-glass. I fully expected to bring them home with me, and was bitterly disappointed when emphatically informed that I could not do so. Since then an empty cigar box has always had a peculiar charm for me, and I never see one or inhale the pungent odor of cedar and tobacco combined but the interior of No. 19 appears before me, and I wonder who fell heir to my beloved boxes. Dan was a good boy in the main, but in an evil hour he learned to play cards. He came home one day very angry with a colored comrade, who had not played fair with him, as he thought. He took “Little Rosebud” up and began to sing to her as usual, when suddenly the song ceased, his anger was too much for him, and he almost hissed forth the words, “I’ll eat him up blood raw widout a bit o’ salt.” Poor, ignorant, black Dan’s roaming about town and card-playing were suddenly cut short. He was attacked with inflammatory rheumatism, and lay helpless and suffering on a cot in our room many days and nights, my dear, patient mother caring for him as best she could, until so worn out that she was compelled to have him removed to the negro quarters. His groans were piteous to hear, and sleep was almost unknown while he remained in our room. CLOSING INCIDENTS AND HOMEWARD BOUND FAREWELL to Jackson, sunny Jackson—that is it was sunny when the sun shone, but as dark and dreary as can be imagined when it rained—the very name is dear to me yet, and the memories that cluster around it are dearer still. When I review my four months’ experience in the Sunny South I feel that the memory of it is something to be proud of. I saw no fighting, but there were skirmishes all around us, and many prisoners were brought in. Some of the saddest sights I saw were prisoners being marched through the streets in the rain, wading through the mud, the water dripping from their faded butternut suits. Many days we heard heavy cannonading which indicated that battles were being fought in close proximity. The time came when we must return to our home in the North. My father having recovered sufficiently to rejoin his regiment at Bolivar, left some days before we did. On the last Sunday of our stay a young soldier by the name of Frank Moss, whose home was in Aberdeen, Ohio, whither we were going, called on my mother and sent messages of love by her to his mother.