ow, through which ran a little stream of water.
Here we halted! The ground before us rose into a low short hill. Along
the ridge of that hill ran the proposed line of battle, and there was
the position for which we were making. There was quite a lively picket
fire going on, in different directions, and right over the hill, behind
which we were, an occasional shell could be heard screeching about, here
and there. Several passed over us, high above our heads, and away to the
rear. Federal Artillery lazily feeling about to provoke a reply, and
find out where somebody was. They felt lonesome, perhaps! It was a calm,
sweet sunlit May evening.

=Feeling Pulses=

In order not to expose us longer than necessary to this fire of the
pickets, Lieutenant Anderson, commanding this "Section," went up on the
hill, to select _exact_ position for the guns, so that they might be
promptly placed, when we went up. While he was up there reconnoitering,
we lay down on the ground, and waited, and talked. The bullets dropped
over, near, and among us, now and then, and we knew, that the moment we
went up a few steps, on the hill, we would be a mark for sharp-shooters,
a particularly unpleasant situation for artillery. But we tried to
forget all this, and be as happy and _seem_ as careless as we could. And
we would have gotten along very well if let alone. But, there was a
dreadful, dirty, snuffy, spectacled old Irishman, named Robert Close, a
driver, who took this interval to amuse himself. He would ask us "how we
felt," and he came around to most of us, young fellows, and asked us to
let him feel our pulse, and see if we were at all excited, or scared;
and he would put his hand on our hearts, to see if they were beating
regularly enough. And he would call out the result of his investigation
in each case,--the other fellows all sitting around, and eagerly waiting
his report. Nobody can tell what a dreadful trial this simple thing was!
When just going under fire--and indeed _already_ under some fire--to
have your heart and your pulse felt, and reported on to a waiting crowd
of comrades! But, all of us youngsters had to undergo it! That cruel,
old scoundrel went round to every one of the youngsters. It was an
unspeakable humiliation for a _cannoneer_ to be thus fingered by _a
driver_, but what could we do? Not a thing!

We would _have liked_ to knock the old rascal's head off, but, not one
of us would have dared to object to that pulse feeling,