thed with a smile;
Oh, had it been but told you then
To mark whose lamp was dim,
From out those ranks of fresh-lipped men,
Would ye have singled him?

* * * *

"His heart, in generous deed and thought,
No rivalry might brook,
And yet, distinction claiming not,
There lies he--go and look."

The occasion was of a very mournful character, and it was not without
effect upon some of the hardest men in the regiment, for young Pervear was
greatly beloved by all.

One Sunday, when instead of going to church I was doing picket duty on the
line of the Norfolk and Petersburg railroad, I halted an old man who was
riding along in a dilapidated two-wheeled vehicle, to which was attached a
still more dilapidated horned beast which, apparently, from time
immemorial had served for its owner all the requirements of a horse. In
answer to my inquiry whether he was a Union man, the old fellow gave me
the following reply: "Stranger, I was born in the Union; I have always
lived in the Union; I have always loved the old Union, and I love her
still; I have always voted for the old Union; and, stranger, when I die,
whether I go to heaven or hell, I shall stick by the old Union!" All
doubts as to his loyalty having been dispelled, I grasped him warmly by
the hand, and, whispering in his ear, said, "Old man, _stick_!"

Perhaps I should have stated ere this that in addition to my duties as a
soldier, I combined those of a "war correspondent." My letters were
generally written in the evening in my tent, lying prone upon my face, the
light being furnished by a dripping tallow candle which was stuck into the
top of a bayonet whose point was inserted in the earth. Here, under such
circumstances, I criticised the conduct of the war, and directed campaigns
as best I could. I mention this fact at this time because the incident
just related has already appeared in print.

An incident which has not appeared in print, but which made a deep
impression upon the "family men" of the regiment, occurred on a beautiful
Sunday afternoon while on dress parade at Miner's Hill. General Robert
Cowdin, the brigade commander, was frequently an interested observer on
these occasions. At the time to which I refer, he was accompanied by a
lady friend from Washington, who held by the hand a beautiful little boy
of four or five years of age. The sight of the little fellow, particularly
when he let go his mother's hand and