duties were over, and morning drill was over (no
relaxation here! There was only one day in the week on which Old Jack
let up on drill, and that wasn't election day!) and the pickets had
reluctantly marched away, leaving their votes behind them, and a section
of artillery had gone off, swearing, to relieve Chew, and the men could
at last get down to work, to happy babbling, happy speechifying, happy
minding the polls, and when in the cool of the afternoon the returns
were announced, there were fewer changes than had been predicted. After
all, most of the officers were satisfactory; why let them down with a
jolt? And the privates were satisfactory, too. Why take a capital
comrade, a good cook and forager and story-teller, and make him
uncomfortable by turning him into an officer? He was nice enough as he
was. Not that there were no alterations. Several companies had new
captains, some lieutenants stepped down, and there was a shifting of
non-commissioned officers. In Company A of the 65th Lieutenant Mathew
Coffin lost out. The men wished to put up Allan Gold for the
lieutenancy, but Allan declined. He had rather, he said, be scout than
lieutenant--and what was the use in changing, anyhow? Lieutenant Coffin
was all right. Hadn't he been as brave as a lion at Kernstown--and any
man is liable to lose his temper at times--and wouldn't we hate him to
have to write back to that young lady at home--? The last plea almost
settled it, for the Confederate heart might be trusted to melt at the
mention of any young lady at home. But all the Thunder Run men were
against Coffin, and Thunder Run turned the scale. In the main, however,
throughout the army, company officers were retained, and retained
because they were efficient. The election was first-rate fun, and the
men cheered the returns, then listened to the orders of the evening from
the same old bars and chevrons. The sun went down on a veritable love
feast--special rations, special music, special fires, and, between
supper and tattoo, an entertainment in each regiment.

The 65th had a beautiful programme, its debating and literary societies,
its glee clubs, chess and checker circles, old sledge associations,
Thespians and Greek Letter men all joining forces. The stage was a piece
of earth, purple brown with pine needles. Two huge fires, one at either
side, made a strong, copper-red illumination. The soldier audience sat
in a deep semicircle, and sat at ease, being accustomed by