off and the pipe put inside, which on the march was hung to the pole of the caisson; also, a flat-iron, one guitar, two violins, and a camp-bed. When at a halt the rooster and five hens were turned out to graze, the former tied securely by the hind leg, as Sam Jones would say; the hens were loyal to the captive rooster and would not wander far from the ambulance. Moral: Stick to your sweethearts and husbands, girls!

1

COW AS A PACK-HORSE.

General Lee allowed me a fine, large ambulance and a pair of good horses all the time, in consideration of my treating my own

ken

of

DR. PARKER'S HISTORIC COW,

Which Supplied Milk for the Battery and also Served as a Pack Horse.
(Reproduced by Courtesy of the Richmond Dispatch)

sick men.
One important member of my household, not to be for-
gotten, was a docile cow, that served two purposes-first, to supply
milk for the household; second, for transportation. She generally
carried the kitchen furniture on her back. She had heard the ter-
rible shock of battle with calmness, and did not tremble at the rat-

tling of tin cans, coffee-pot, skillet, and canteens carried on her back. When any of the men were sick they got milk, which, to a soldier, was nectar. When on the march I would fill my canteen early in the morning with milk for the day's ride, and by 10 o'clock I had butter and buttermilk. By dipping the canteen into a branch now and then the milk was kept cool. These canteens were all covered with thick woollen cloth, and keeping it wet, evaporation was very active, and resulted in cooling the contents. This has been the eastern plan many centuries for cooling their wines, etc. I don't think in one year after the war began I saw a Confederate soldier who had not a Yankee canteen. Our northern friends supplied me with four splendid 3-inch steel-rifled cannon, 100 canteens, 100 oil-cloths, and 100 blankets. This was very kind, for enemies. I don't know how we could have gotten along without them.

weons our

But I must not forget my candle-moulds. What are they? some may inquire. I have not seen one for twenty years, and I suppose many of you young ladies never saw one. They are for moulding tallow candles. I hope you will never have to use them. In the Tennessee campaign I saw a boy with the largest moulds I had ever seen. He evidently took it for a musical instrument. I said, with surprise and disgust: "What in the world are you doing with those candle-moulds?" He replied: "I picked them up in a 'Uons' house." (In that latitude Uons" meant enemy, people.) I asked: "What are you going to do with them?" "I don't know," he replied. "Won't you have them?" I said : "Don't throw them away. Give them to Joe, my servant. Next winter, on the Howlett-line, I found them of great value. My good friend and good soldier, Billy Mays, of the City Gas-works, was detailed from my battery for the commissary department, and I asked him to get me some tallow. He did so, and I commenced the tallow-chandler business, and it was a success. I occupied quite a large house near the line of battle, and took my wife and servants out there and spent nearly a year. While most tents or cabins had fire-light only, I could afford to burn two candles when I had small print to read, so that my wife and I did more reading than in peace times. These candle-moulds, not being thrown away (note the moral, young ladies and gentlemen), afforded me much pleasure and profit.

VALUABLE SERVICE OF JOE.

But I cannot close my catalogue of household things without mentioning more particularly "Joe," to whom reference has been

made. He was sent me by Heaven, I have no doubt.

I am telling

the truth. Just as war began, and while I was organizing the Virginia Light Guard, in my office, in the law building, corner Twelfth and Franklin streets, I saw that I must get a man-servant to take to the field. Passing down Bank street one morning, I met a tall, straight, polite-looking mulatto man, who walked with a quick step, and I inquired if he was for hire. He said no, but for sale. The price was $700. I at once bought him in, and in the four years alone in which he was with me, from Bethel to Appomattox, he was was worth $7,000 to me. Joe used to tell me he was brought up by his "old missus" in the home with a "silver spoon" in his mouth, and that he was taught to do everything. He was waiter, gardener, butler, washer, and ironer, etc., etc. I found he told me the truth. He could do anything, and do it all well. He was blessed with an excellent spirit, and was trusted by every man and officer in the battalion. When going into battle he took charge of all our watches and jewelry, and never was anything missing. He washed for many of the officers, attended to his ambulance horse, and mine, and arose at daybreak. He was one of the cleanest and most honest cooks, and what was most gratifying, he loved me better than anybody in this world. I advised him soon after the war began to get married. Take notice, my young friends, I believe in everybody of any account getting married; but be certain you don't marry in haste and repent at leisure. Joe was no soldier. He knew his business. When we went into Maryland and Pennsylvania I became very uneasy lest he should make a break for liberty. I kept my eye on him. To lose him would be to lose my right hand. On the second day's fight at Gettysburg I saw Joe coming across the field at full speed. I never saw him in such fright, and he said to me, out of breath: "Marse William, I thought dey had me!" "Who?" I asked. "Dem Yankees," pointing to the thousands of Federal prisoners on their way to Libby Prison. I was greatly relieved. had no more fear of Joe's loyalty.

་་

HURRIED TO THE REAR.

I

In Tennessee one bright morning the battery was moving along a pleasant road. I was near Joe's ambulance. We did not dream of the enemy being near, when suddenly bang went a cannon over the hills just in the direction we were marching, and instantly the head

of one of Joe's fine white ambulance horses was struck off, with a sinking, hollow sound, and he dropped dead in the traces. I told Joe, as soon as he could, to go to the rear, and I galloped to the top of the hill at full speed to look out for the enemy. I think it was less than three minutes before I looked over my shoulder to see how Joe was getting on with his dead horse. To my surprise, he had cut out the dead animal and put in a live one, and was driving for life and death to the rear. I think Joe's was the fastest time on record. At Cold Harbor my battery was sheltered from the army by an intervening wood, and, while the shells passed near us, there was really no danger. After eating my breakfast, I said: "Joe, eat your breakfast and take the ambulance to the rear.' The breakfast was served on a camp-chest. Instead of doing as I directed him, he hastily gathered up in the table-cloth, coffee-pot, sugar-dish, etc., and, with much agitation, said: "Lord, Marse William, this ain't no place to eat breakfast!" and he and his ambulance were gone in a twinkling. To Joe's good management I can say what probably few other men can say—I suffered only one day in the four years for food, and that was the day I was separated from him. Till Joe's death, some years ago, we were great friends. Every Christmas he brought me a turkey, and would say to my wife: "Miss Ella, me and Marse William was jest like brothers in the war." His wife continues to eat her Christmas dinner at my house. Another piece of good luck, perhaps more remarkable than this, was that in the four years I was in the army I did not once get wet. I captured early in the war an excellent oil-cloth, made like a Spanish poncho, with a hole in the centre. With this on, and a slouch hat that turned the rain like a tin roof, and a pair of cavalry water-proof boots six inches above my knees, I have ridden two days and nights in a driving rain without getting a drop of water on me. I did what all soldiers should do; I would never lie down on the wet ground. Many a cold, rainy night I would sit on a log or stump before a fire and sleep with my head in my hands. At one time I had a hammock. They don't answer in wet weather. Sometimes I would sleep on the top of a worm-fence, by separating the two upper rails. It was in these four years that I had no rheumatism. No writer will ever tell of the sorrows and sufferings of our noble private soldiers (I hate the old phrase, "common soldier"), who, badly clad, and without shelter, marched day and night in mud and water, barefooted, and hungry, till disease ended their misery. These

were noble souls in mean clothes, suffering patiently in a noble cause as ever filled a patriot's breast. Long may they live in our affections, and may we never forget their wives and children.

HAD A STRING BAND.

The last thing I shall mention as one of my family possessions was a string band. My bugler was a highly-educated German musician. He served an apprenticeship of seven years. He had a good voice. With my wife's $50 guitar and two good violins we had good music. It often happened that on the march there were long and tedious delays caused by obstructions ahead. Sometimes it was a bridge or a broken wagon in a narrow road, sometimes waiting for somebody to come up, but from whatsoever cause the delay was irksome, especially if the day was hot and the road dusty. Under such delay music by the band was ordered, and some would dance, while others would drink in with delight the concord of sweet sound. Others would remember the "Old Folks at Home," and others again "The Girl I Left Behind Me." When the band was not wanted in camp at night it could get a good supper by seeking the best-looking house near our camping-ground. Eglin would enter first, almost without invitation, and, seating himself at the piano, would soon attract the whole household to him. There was no need of any further introduction. The cook began to hurry, and hot rolls and coffee were soon spread on the hospitable board for the dusty and tired soldiers. Often an impromptu dance by the neighbors would end the evening. Eglin and Moore have long since departed, but Frank Turnly still remains in Chesterfield. The sweet notes of Lorena" and "Her Bright Smile Haunts Me Still," even after thirty years, awaken tender memories of departed joys.

FOUGHT A GOOD FIGHT.

In conclusion, my comrades, we fought a good fight, but have not yet received the fruit of our toil, but our reward is sure. We sowed in tears, but we shall reap in joy. How, when, and where, I know not. Some of our reward may be in this world-some in the

next.

Of this I have no doubt. The retrospect of the four years of army life affords me more real pleasure than any like period in the past fifty years. I know not believe I know our cause was just. The man who calls us rebels is a fool; he knows nothing of