“You could get plenty of men and money and we had got the last of the boys and their grandfathers months before and were busted in everything but grit. We knew the jig was up, but were goin’ to die game, and when you rounded us up at Appomattox the last ounce of corn meal wer’ gone.” The veteran’s eyes were moist as he expressed thanks for his entertainment and said he must be “marchin’ on.” We suggested that he would probably find his brother in Maryland, settle down and forget his hardships and battles. “Forgit nuthin; why I’d rather lose my arms than to forgit how Gen. Pickett looked that day as 5,000 men behind him marched to death. When you keep step with a man down to the jaws of death and go back alone, if you forgit him ye are not fit to crawl! But, I ain’t anything agin ye, Yanks; ‘All is quiet on the Potomac’ now and if I git in comfortable quarters over in Maryland should like to have you boys come and camp with me a week and eat some of them luscious Eastern Sho’ oysters, canvas backs and fat terrapin.” As we shook his hand we pressed a few silver quarters in the palm and when he started away he turned and with a husky voice said: “Good bye, old second corps; I’m dog-goned if I’ll ever forgit you’ns.” A PRECIOUS COFFEE POT. Not many years since I spent a night with a comrade in his home in a city of central New York and we sat and smoked and talked, and talked and smoked, until long after midnight. The walls of his den were adorned with guns, sabres, canteens, cartridge boxes and belts and various other war relics. Conspicuously displayed among the other decorations was a battered and blackened coffee pot. “Yes,” he replied in answer to my inquiry, “it is the same old coffee pot I carried from Washington to Appomattox and is one of my most cherished keepsakes.” “About the time we went to the front I was in the city one day and knowing that a coffee pot was a very useful utensil to a soldier I invested in the best copper bottom one that I could find. There was not another one in the company and money could not buy one when we were in the field. Six of us regularly made coffee in it, and others used to take turns in borrowing it for various purposes, such as cooking rice, beans, meat, boiling shirts and the making of those famous old ‘Liverpool stews’ when we were fortunate enough to get an onion, two or three potatoes with hardtack, pepper and salt.” “Many a batch of flap jacks have I stirred up in that old coffee pot, paying the sutler 25 cents a pound for self-rising flour. The ears and handle got melted off after a time, but I punched holes where the ears had been, hooked the bale in and so it lasted to the end. My wife wanted to scour the black off, but I wouldn’t have it. “Why, it took the smoke of more than a thousand camp fires to put that finish on it!