d bleeding. We could see the smoke boil up, and it would be
nearly a minute before we would hear the report of the cannon, and then a
few moments after we would hear the scream of the shell as it went on to
Atlanta. We used to count from the time we would see the smoke boil up
until we would hear the noise, and some fellow would call out, "Look
out boys, the United States is sending iron over into the Southern
Confederacy; let's send a little lead back to the United States."
And we would blaze away with our Enfield and Whitworth guns, and every
time we would fire, we would silence those parrot guns. This kind of fun
was carried on for forty-six days.

DEATH OF TOM TUCK'S ROOSTER

Atlanta was a great place to fight chickens. I had heard much said about
cock pits and cock fights, but had never seen such a thing. Away over
the hill, outside of the range of Thomas' thirty-pound parrot guns,
with which he was trying to burn up Atlanta, the boys had fixed up a cock
pit. It was fixed exactly like a circus ring, and seats and benches were
arranged for the spectators. Well, I went to the cock fight one day.
A great many roosters were to be pitted that day, and each one was
trimmed and gaffed. A gaff is a long keen piece of steel, as sharp as
a needle, that is fitted over the spurs. Well, I looked on at the fun.
Tom Tuck's rooster was named Southern Confederacy; but this was
abbreviated to Confed., and as a pet name, they called him Fed. Well,
Fed was a trained rooster, and would "clean up" a big-foot rooster as
soon as he was put in the pit. But Tom always gave Fed every advantage.
One day a green-looking country hunk came in with a rooster that he
wanted to pit against Fed. He looked like a common rail-splitter.
The money was soon made up, and the stakes placed in proper hands.
The gaffs were fitted, the roosters were placed in the pit and held until
both were sufficiently mad to fight, when they were turned loose, and
each struck at the same time. I looked and poor Fed was dead. The other
rooster had popped both gaffs through his head. He was a dead rooster;
yea, a dead cock in the pit. Tom went and picked up his rooster, and
said, "Poor Fed, I loved you; you used to crow every morning at daylight
to wake me up. I have carried you a long time, but, alas! alas! poor Fed,
your days are numbered, and those who fight will sometimes be slain.
Now, friends, conscripts, countrymen, if you have any tears to shed,
p