Old “Lige” Moyer used to come out in front of his cook tent almost every evening and play the fiddle, and, if you will believe it, “Lige” learned Billy to waltz, rewarding him with liberal rations after the performance. Billy always stood guard with his master, keeping him company in his lonely night watches. The crack of a rifle did not disturb him the least bit, but the booming of the heavy guns were too much for his nerves, and he would go and hide in his owner’s tent. When we were ordered out to the front for the Bull Run campaign Billy went along, too. He used to curl up under the same blanket with Joe, his master. The morning that the battle of Manassas opened our regiment was subjected to a severe artillery fire for two hours. Billy became a skulker and went to the rear. In the skedaddle and panic that occurred later in the day, Joe, with many others, was taken prisoner by the Johnnies. A couple of weeks later our regiment was sent back to the forts. Billy was not with us and no one had seen him since the morning at Bull Run. We concluded that he must have been taken prisoner, too, but a few days later Billy appeared in camp. He was a sorry looking dog, thin as a razor and his hair turned toward his head. The distance to Manassas was about twenty-five miles, but he had probably tramped much farther in finding his way back to camp. All were glad to see him again, and he seemed pleased enough to see us until he found that Joe was not there. No more the bugle calls aroused him, and even the music of the band had lost its charm. He would just go looking in the different tents and keep up a continual whining. One day he got tired waiting for Joe to come back and he left us, and that was the last we ever heard of dog Billy. THE OLD WAR SONGS. “I cannot sing the old songs, I sang long years ago, For heart and voice would fail me and foolish tears would flow; For by-gone hours come o’er my heart with each familiar strain; I cannot sing the old songs, or dream those dreams again.” * * * * * How many of our readers remember the old songs and melodies that were so popular in the sixties? People sang them in their homes and the soldiers in the camps and on the march, and they furnished inspiration for many a tired regiment to go into battle. As I write there comes to my mind snatches of many of the old favorites such as “We’ll Rally Round the Flag, Boys,” “Tramp, Tramp, Tramp, the Boys are Marching.” A story is told of a regiment who went into battle nearly one thousand strong and came out with less than half the number, but the survivors with their blood-stained banners and smoke-begrimed faces marched to another position in the line singing “We’ll rally round the flag, boys, We’ll rally once again, shouting the battle cry of freedom.”