r
running in their heads.

On Wednesday, while I was on my usual weekly visit to the Mackerel camp
near Duck Lake, I was called to look upon the body of a poor soldier
who had been shot during the night by a prowling Confederacy. He was a
very young chap, my boy, with light, wavy hair, and might have been
taken for a mere lad, had there not been more years in the deep lines
on his brow than on his beardless chin. There he lay upon his gun, with
one hand clenched in the sand, and the other upon the damp red spot on
his breast. He looked like a child who had fallen asleep after unkind
words from his mother. The Chaplain and a private Mackerel in rags were
bending over him, and says I,--

"Who was he?"

"He went by the name of Nemo," says the Chaplain, sadly; "but no one
knows what his real name was. He enlisted only two days ago, and kept
himself apart from the other men. I think he _was_ a gentleman."

Here the private Mackerel in rags broke in, and says he: "Yes, he _was_
a gentleman. I an't no gentleman, but I know _he_ was, and I can lick
any man that says he wasn't! I spoke to him last night when he was
relieving guard, and asked him what fire-company he belonged to; and he
said, none. I see he looked sick, and wasn't fit to do duty, and I
offered to go out on picket in his place. It wasn't much to offer; but
he squeezed my hand very hard, and said that my life was worth more
than his; and that he would go. I asked him what he wanted to come to
the war and get killed for; and he said he'd tried to do his best in
the world, but everybody was against him, and he'd been disgraced for
trying to do an honorable thing, and couldn't stay and face people any
more, because all turned away from him. I told him I would lick the man
who hurt his feelings, and he only said: 'They all do that,' and went
away." Here the poor Mackerel in rags shed tears, and says he: "I know
he WAS a gentleman."

"I see how it is," says the Chaplain, shaking his head; "he was one of
those unfortunates whose sensitive natures are a legacy of unhappiness,
or madness, to be cancelled only by death. And yet his kindness of
heart with this rude soldier proved how much goodness there was in him
that the world had not turned to bitterness."

Alas! my boy, what a pity it is that these finer natures are forever
coming under the heels of everybody, and getting themselves crushed!
They are like fine Sevres vases among stout earthen pipkins, equally
rea