as black as a negro, and was as big as a skinned horse.
He had mortified. I recollect of saying, "Ugh, ugh," and of my hat being
lifted off my head, by my hair, which stood up like the quills of the
fretful porcupine. He scared me worse when dead than when living.

AN OLD CITIZEN

But after the little unpleasant episode in the rifle pit, I went back and
took my stand. When nearly day, I saw the bright and beautiful star in
the east rise above the tree tops, and the gray fog from off the river
begun to rise, and every now and then could hear a far off chicken crow.

While I was looking toward the Yankee line, I saw a man riding leisurely
along on horseback, and singing a sort of humdrum tune. I took him to be
some old citizen. He rode on down the road toward me, and when he had
approached, "Who goes there?" He immediately answered, "A friend."
I thought that I recognized the voice in the darkness--and said I,
"Who are you?" He spoke up, and gave me his name. Then, said I,
"Advance, friend, but you are my prisoner." He rode on toward me,
and I soon saw that it was Mr. Mumford Smith, the old sheriff of Maury
county. I was very glad to see him, and as soon as the relief guard came,
I went back to camp with him. I do not remember of ever in my life being
more glad to see any person. He had brought a letter from home, from my
father, and some Confederate old issue bonds, which I was mighty glad
to get, and also a letter from "the gal I left behind me," enclosing a
rosebud and two apple blossoms, resting on an arbor vita leaf, and this
on a little piece of white paper, and on this was written a motto (which
I will have to tell for the young folks), "Receive me, such as I am;
would that I were of more use for your sake. Jennie." Now, that was
the bouquet part. I would not like to tell you what was in that letter,
but I read that letter over five hundred times, and remember it today.
I think I can repeat the poetry _verbatim et literatim_, and will do so,
gentle reader, if you don't laugh at me. I'm married now, and only
write from memory, and never in my life have I read it in book or paper,
and only in that letter--

"I love you, O, how dearly,
Words too faintly but express;
This heart beats too sincerely,
E'er in life to love you less;
No, my fancy never ranges,
Hopes like mine, can never soar;
If the love I cherish, changes,
'Twill only be to love you mo