. I had
no salt, and so put a big chunk of salt beef in the pot instead of salt,
consequently the chickens were saltier then Lot's wife.

I think I felt more disappointed than anybody, so I determined to make up
for it in some other way. The regiment finally brought up in the first or
advance line of breastwork, and I was still skirmishing in the rear for
anything that I could find that was good.

I had tramped back to the rear about three miles, my mind bent on securing
anything that would please the heart and eye, or tickle the palates of the
brave fellows who had gone to face the enemy and do the real work of our
country. About a quarter of a mile to the left of me I espied a covered
wagon moving toward the front. I wondered what it was and where it was
bound for, as from the frequent halt it made, it seemed the driver was
lost to himself. I bore down toward him and found it was a sanitary wagon,
loaded with good things sent out by the ladies of the north. The driver
was an old man--one of those long, lanky individuals who might be taken
for a parson or a horse dealer. He reminded me of the "Arkansaw Traveler."
His clothes were of the salt and pepper homespun goods, a little worse for
wear and very ill fitting, they looked as if he had lost fifty pounds of
flesh since he started from home; his pants were tucked into a pair of old
cow-hide boots; his hat was a cross between a stove pipe and a derby; his
hair was red, very long and sprinkled with grey; his eyebrows were shaggy,
nearly meeting over the nose and hanging down over a pair of faded blue
eyes. So wrinkled was his skin that you would think his face was a frozen
laugh; a little strip of red hair ran down the side of his face in front
of his ears and almost met under his chin; the space left open in his
whiskers, evidently an outlet for the tobacco juice that trickled down
from each side of his mouth. As I approached he pulled up his mules and
called to me in a rather cracked voice, "Say, Major, or Sergeant, or what
ever you are, whar's the field hospital?"

"Three miles from here," said I, pointing backward.

"What's that firin I hear? Ain't no rebs 'round yere, be thar?"

"Yes," I replied; "there's a long row of them about half a mile in front
of us, and you had better halt right where you are. What's your cargo?"

"Wall, I got most anything that is needed by you poor fellows--useful
things. I'm sent here by a society called the Northfield First Methodist