ber pickles! Supper over,
we went back to the depot, all feeling better, and I've had a warm spot
in my heart for the old town of Cairo ever since. But it certainly did
look hard at this time. Its population, at the beginning of the war,
was only a little over two thousand, the houses were small and
dilapidated, and everything was dirty, muddy, slushy, and disagreeable
in general. In October, 1914, I happened to be in Cairo again, and
spent several hours there, roaming around, and looking at the town. The
lapse of half a century had wrought a wonderful change. Its population
was now something over fifteen thousand, the streets were well paved
and brilliantly lighted, and long blocks of tall, substantial buildings
had superseded the unsightly shacks of the days of the Civil War. But
on this occasion I found no vestige of our "Soldiers' Home," nor was
any person of whom inquiry was made able to give me the slightest
information as to where it had stood. The only thing I saw in the town,
or that vicinity, that looked natural, was the Ohio river, and even its
placid appearance was greatly marred by a stupendous railroad bridge,
over which trains of cars were thundering every hour in the day. But
the river itself was flowing on in serene majesty, as it had been from
the time "the morning stars sang together," and as it will continue to
flow until this planet goes out of business.

We left Cairo on the cars on the night of October 26th, and for the
first time in our military service, we rode in passenger coaches, which
was another piece of evidence that once more we were in that part of
the world that we uniformly spoke of as "God's Country." I remember an
incident that occurred during our ride that night that gave us all the
benefit of a hearty laugh. There was (and is yet) a station on the
Illinois Central, in Jackson county, Illinois, by the name of
"Makanda." It was some time after midnight when we neared this station,
the boys were sprawled out on their seats, and trying to doze. The
engine gave the usual loud whistle to announce a stop, the front door
of our coach was thrown open, and a brakeman with a strong Hibernian
accent called out in thunder tones what sounded exactly like
"My-candy!" as here written,--and with the accent on the first
syllable. There were several soldiers in the coach who were not of our
party, also going home on furlough, and one of these, a big fellow with
a heavy black beard, reared up and yell