"POOR" BERRY MORGAN

One of those sad, unexpected affairs, that remind the living that even in
life we are in the midst of death, happened at Shelbyville. Our regiment
had been out to the front, on duty, and was returning to camp. It was
nearly dark, and we saw a black wind cloud rising. The lightning's flash
and the deep muttering thunders warned us to seek shelter as speedily as
possible. Some of us ran in under the old depot shed, and soon the storm
struck us. It was a tornado that made a track through the woods beyond
Shelbyville, and right through the town, and we could follow its course
for miles where it had blown down the timber, twisting and piling it in
every shape. Berry Morgan and I had ever been close friends, and we
threw down our blankets and were lying side by side, when I saw roofs of
houses, sign boards, and brickbats flying in every direction. Nearly
half of the town was blown away in the storm. While looking at the storm
without, I felt the old shed suddenly jar and tremble, and suddenly
become unroofed, and it seemed to me that ten thousand brickbats had
fallen in around us. I could hear nothing for the roaring of the storm,
and could see nothing for the blinding rain and flying dirt and bricks
and other rubbish. The storm lasted but a few minutes, but those minutes
seemed ages. When it had passed, I turned to look at "poor Berry."
Poor fellow! his head was crushed in by a brickbat, his breast crushed
in by another, and I think his arm was broken, and he was otherwise
mutilated. It was a sad sight. Many others of our regiment were wounded.

Berry was a very handsome boy. He was what everybody would call a
"pretty man." He had fair skin, blue eyes, and fine curly hair, which
made him look like an innocent child. I loved Berry. He was my friend--
as true as the needle to the pole. But God, who doeth all things well,
took his spirit in the midst of the storm to that beautiful home beyond
the skies. I thank God I am no infidel. We will meet again.

WRIGHT SHOT TO DEATH WITH MUSKETRY

I saw a young boy about seventeen or eighteen years old, by the name of
Wright, and belonging to General Marcus J. Wright's brigade, shot to
death with musketry at this place. The whole of Cheatham's division had
to march out and witness the horrid scene. Now, I have no doubt that
many, if not all, would have gone without being forced to do so, but then
you know that was Bragg's style. He wanted a