"On the morning of the thirtieth of August, 1862, before sunrise, I was lying under a fence rolled up in a blanket on the Bull Run battle-field. It was the second day of the Bull Run battle. My own regiment, the Second New Hampshire Volunteers, had been in the fight the day before and had lost one-third of the entire regiment in killed and wounded. "While so lying by the fence some one shook me and said, 'Get up here.' In answer I said, without throwing the blanket from over my head, 'Who in thunder are you?' The answer was made, 'Get up here and see the Colonel of the Massachusetts Twelfth.' "The speaker then partly pulled the blanket off my head and I saw that it was Colonel Fletcher Webster; whereupon I arose, and we sat down together and I sent my orderly for coffee. "We sat there drinking the coffee and talking about his father, Daniel Webster, and he told me about his father going up to Franklin every year and always using the same expression about going. He would say 'Fletcher, my son, let us go up to Franklin to-morrow; let us have a good time and leave the old lady at home. Let us have a good old New Hampshire dinner--fried apples and onions and pork.' At about that time the Adjutant of Colonel Webster's regiment came along and told him that the General commanding his brigade wanted to see him. Colonel Webster replied that he would be there shortly. "As he sat there on the blanket with me he took hold of his left leg just below the knee with both hands and said: 'There, I will agree to have my leg taken off right there for my share of the casualties of this day.' I replied: 'I would as soon be killed as lose a leg; and the chances are a hundred to one that you won't be hit at all.' 'Well,' said he as he gave me his hand, 'I hope to see you again; goodbye.' I never saw him again. He was killed that day. His extreme sadness, his depression, was perhaps indicative of a conviction or presentiment of some impending misfortune." * * * * * OLD DORCHESTER. By Charles M. Barrows. The quaint old Puritan annalist, James Blake, wrote as a preface to his book of records: