Whether in the thickest of the battle, where hundreds or thousands were rushing at each other in deadly combat, or on the lonely highway where he came face to face with a single adversary, or in the reconnoissance by day or night, when alone or attended by a single member of his staff he would ride into the enemy's lines and even into their camps, he was with pistol or sabre ever ready to assert his physical prowess. It is known that he placed _hors de combat_ thirty Federal officers or soldiers fighting hand-to-hand. JOHN A. WYETH October Twenty-Ninth Swing, rustless blade, in the dauntless hand; Ride, soul of a god, through the deathless band, Through the low green mounds, or the breadth of the land, Wherever your legions dwell! VIRGINIA FRAZER BOYLE _Gen. N. B. Forrest dies, 1877_ October Thirtieth It will be difficult in all history to find a more varied career than his, a man who, from the greatest poverty, without any learning, and by sheer force of character alone became the great fighting leader of fighting men, a man in whom an extraordinary military instinct and sound common-sense supplied to a very large extent his unfortunate want of military education. His military career teaches us that the genius which makes men great soldiers is not art of war. VISCOUNT WOLSELEY (England) October Thirty-First Rising from the position of a private soldier to wear the wreath and stars of a lieutenant-general, and that without education or influence to help him, wounded four times and having twenty-nine horses shot under him, capturing 31,000 prisoners, and cannon, flags, and stores of all kinds beyond computation, Nathan Bedford Forrest was a born genius for war, and his career is one of the most brilliant and romantic to be found in the pages of history. REV. J. WILLIAM JONES November FALL Sad-hearted Spirit of the solitudes, Who comest through the ruin-wedded woods! Gray-gowned in fog, gold-girdled with the gloom Of tawny sunsets; burdened with perfume Of rain-wet uplands, chilly with the mist; And all the beauty of the fire-kissed Cold forests crimsoning thy indolent way, Odorous of death and drowsy with decay. I think of thee as seated 'mid the showers Of languid leaves that cover up the flowers-- The little flower-sisterhoods, whom June Once gave wild sweetness to, as to a tune A singer gives her soul's wild melody-- Watching the squirrel store his granary. Or, 'mid old orchards, I have pictured thee: Thy hair's profusion blown about thy back; One lovely shoulder bathed with gypsy black; Upon thy palm one nestling cheek, and sweet The rosy russets tumbled at thy feet. Was it a voice lamenting for the flowers? Or heart-sick bird that sang of happier hours? A cricket dirging days that soon must die? Or did the ghost of Summer wander by? MADISON CAWEIN November First