was one of them.
I learned the following anecdote from a soldier who died in Camp
Douglas:

Private Auchmuty said, "We had marched for a whole year, and had never
a battle. Like all soldiers, we grumbled a good deal, and found fault
with our rations. Our chaplain preached a sermon about our being
discontented, saying we 'had done nothing at all for the government,
only to soldier a little, and eat our rations.' This made us a little
angry, and so we took it out in calling as he passed, '_There goes
the chaplain that eats his rations_!'

"But by-and-by we had a sharp and bloody fight at Stone River. Colonel
B. J. Sweet was badly wounded in his right arm, and our captain was
killed. This made us waver and fall back. But the chaplain rushed
forward to lead us, exclaiming, 'Boys, come on! The enemy is wavering;
we are sure of a victory!' On we rushed after him, and drove the foe
off the field. After that we called him the 'Bully chaplain.' He lost
his wig, but he gained the victory."

LEGEND OF "CRAZY WOMAN'S FORK."

The Absarakas, or Crow nation, have the reputation of being good
friends to the whites, and it is also said they have never warred with
them.

Iron Bull, a renowned chief of the Crows, relates the following legend.

In the journey through that most delightful region of Montana from Fort
Phil. Kearney to Fort C. F. Smith (in the Powder River country), one of
the most favored camping-grounds is the one called "Crazy Woman's
Fork," the name of a pretty little stream of water that rises in the
Big Horn Mountains, and emptying into the Little Horn River. About
three miles from the mountains this stream crosses the trail between
the two military posts mentioned.

This camp on the Fork is noted for its danger from Indian attacks, as
an abundant supply of game being found in the valley, brings the Indian
there to replenish his larder of wild meat. Notwithstanding the dangers
attending a journey through this region, it has its attractions in the
beautiful and diversified views of lovely scenery, which hasten the
parties traveling that region to encamp, for a night at least, on the
banks of a limpid stream that refreshes man and beast from an unfailing
source in the mountains. The banks are skirted with cottonwood-trees,
and to the west, one sees the tall spurs of the Rocky Mountains rising
up, as it were, from your feet, their dizzy heights covered with snow;
while the haze that surrounds them gives to