In December, 1862, I reached Helena with a heavy lot of hospital supplies. I sent a message to my friend, General Cyrus Bussey, who was Assistant-Secretary of the Interior during President Harrison’s administration, but who was then in command, requesting an ambulance, that I might visit the several hospitals. He sent me a note, saying that it would be impossible to get about in an ambulance, but that if I wished he would send me an army wagon. Of course I accepted the offer. A big wagon, with four good strong mules attached, was sent me. A camp-chair was put in for my use; and Chaplain P. P. Ingalls offered to accompany me, and took a seat with the driver on a board which had been placed across the wagon bed. We started down the principal street of the town, towards the steamboat-landing; but we had not gone far till the team began to mire. The mules made a desperate struggle to get out, and the driver tried to turn them towards the sidewalk; but the more they struggled the deeper they sank into the black mire of the street. The mules were in up to their sides, and the wagon had sunk down almost to the bed. Immediately a crowd of soldiers gathered on the board sidewalk. They had been through many a miry place, and knew just what to do. Boards from the near fence and rails were brought, and soon the space was bridged between the struggling mules and the board sidewalk. The mules were soon detached from the wagon, poles and rails were used to pry them out, and ropes were put about them, and they were pulled by main force to the sidewalk. As the boards on which the men stood sank down in the mud, other boards were brought and laid on top of them, and many willing hands made the work of rescue possible. The last mule to be rescued was up to his sides in the mire. It seemed almost impossible to get a rail down under him, or to get ropes about him, so as to help him; but at last, covered with black mud and almost exhausted, he stood on the board sidewalk. Chaplain Ingalls and myself were then rescued, the wagon was abandoned, and a board put up, “NO BOTTOM,” to warn others. A TERRIBLE STORM AT CHATTANOOGA. HOW THE MEN IN THE HOSPITAL TENTS WERE SAVED FROM FREEZING. On the night of Dec. 31, 1863, a fearful storm swept over the Southern States, extending from the Mississippi River to the Atlantic Coast. I was at Chattanooga at the time. The tempest came down upon us like an Arctic hurricane. It beat and tore around the cliffs of Lookout Mountain and down its gorges, levelling trees, and freezing the life-currents in every unprotected living thing. Many of the guards on duty in the army that night froze to death. General Russell A. Alger, who was in front of the enemy in the Eastern Army that night, tells of his ride along the picket-line. As the position of his forces was a dangerous one, he desired to assure himself that the guards were at their posts of duty.