These printed forms suit the case of any soldier, my boy; but I didn't entirely fill this one up. Samyule was conversing with the chaplain about his Federal soul, when a tall, shabby chap made a dash for the bedside, and says he to Samyule: "I'm agent for the great American publishing house of Rushem & Jinks, and desire to know if you have anything that could be issued in book-form after your lamented departure. We could make a handsome 12mo book," says the shabby chap, persuadingly, "of your literary remains. Works of a Union Martyr--Eloquent Writings of a Hero--Should be in every American Library--Take it home to your wife--Twenty editions ordered in advance of publication--Half-calf, $1.--Send in your orders." Samyule looked thoughtfully at the publishing chap, and says he: "I never wrote anything in my life." "Oh!" says the shabby chap, pleasantly, "anything will do--your early poems in the weekly journals--anything." "But," says Samyule, regretfully, "I never wrote a line to a newspaper in all my life." "What!" says the publishing chap, almost in a shriek--"never wrote a line to a newspaper? Gentleman," says the chap, looking toward us, suspiciously, "this man can't be an American." And he departed hastily. Believing, my boy, that there would be no more interruptions, Samyule went on dying; but I was called from his bedside by a long-haired chap from New York. Says the chap to me: "My name is Brown--Brown's Patent Hair-Dye, 25 cents a bottle. Of course," says the hirsute chap, affably, "a monument will be erected to the memory of our departed hero. An Italian marble shaft, standing on a pedestal of four panels. Now," says the hairy chap, insinuatingly, "I will give ten thousand dollars to have my advertisement put on the panel next to the name of the lamented deceased. We can get up something neat and appropriate, thus: [Illustration: WE MUST ALL DIE; BUT BROWN'S DYE IS THE BEST] "There!" says the enterprising chap, smilingly, "that would be very neat and moral, besides doing much good to an American fellow-being." I made no reply, my boy; but I told Samyule about it, and it excited him so that he regained his health. "If I can't die," says the lamented Samyule, "without some advertising cuss's making money by it, I'll defer my visit to glory until next season." And he got well, my boy--he got well. I was talking to the chaplain about Samyule's illness, and says the chaplain: "I am happy to say, my fellow-sinner, that when our beloved Samyule was at the most dangerous crisis, he gave the most convincing proof of realizing his critical condition." "How?" says I, skeptically. "Why," says the chaplain, with a Christian look, "when I told our beloved Samyule that there could be little hope of his recovery, and asked him if his spiritual adviser could do anything to make his passage easier, he pressed my hand fervently, and besought me to see that he was buried _with a fan in his hand_."