ht years old. One of my schoolmates was a remarkably pretty little
girl, with blue eyes and auburn hair, nearly my own age. We kept about
the same place in our studies, and were generally in the same classes. I
always liked her, and by the time I was about fifteen years old was head
over heels in love. She was far above me in the social scale of the
neighborhood. Her folks lived in a frame house on "the other side of the
creek," and were well-to-do, for that time and locality. My people lived
in a log cabin, on a little farm in the broken country that extended
from the south bank of Otter creek to the Mississippi and Illinois
rivers. But notwithstanding the difference in our respective social and
financial positions, I knew that she had a liking for me, and our mutual
relations became quite "tender" and interesting. Then the war came
along, I enlisted and went South. We had no correspondence after I left
home; I was just too deplorably bashful to attempt it, and, on general
principles, didn't have sense enough to properly carry on a proceeding
of that nature. It may be that here was where I fell down. But I thought
about her every day, and had many boyish day dreams of the future, in
which she was the prominent figure. Soon after our arrival at Bethel I
received a letter from home. I hurriedly opened it, anxious, as usual,
to hear from the folks, and sitting down at the foot of a tree, began
reading it. All went well to nearly the close, when I read these fatal
words:

"Billy Crane and Lucy Archer got married last week."

The above names are fictitious, but the bride was my girl.

I can't explain my feelings,--if you ever have had such an experience,
you will understand. I stole a hurried glance around to see if anybody
was observing my demeanor, then thrust the letter into my jacket
pocket, and walked away. Not far from our camp was a stretch of swampy
land, thickly set with big cypress trees, and I bent my steps in that
direction. Entering the forest, I sought a secluded spot, sat down on
an old log, and read and re-read that heart-breaking piece of
intelligence. There was no mistaking the words; they were plain,
laconic, and nothing ambiguous about them. And, to intensify the
bitterness of the draught, it may be set down here that the groom was a
dudish young squirt, a clerk in a country store, who lacked the pluck
to go for a soldier, but had stayed at home to count eggs and measure
calico. In my opinion, he w