hero of Wilson's Creek, General Lyon. Here our brigade receives an additional regiment, the Fifth Michigan, one of the best that ever carried and protected a flag, commanded by a big old lawyer from Detroit, Colonel Terry. But he was too corpulent, and the gallant Fifth soon shipped him for a more active Colonel, for he was not fast enough for that regiment.

All are busy now and have plenty of work. When not on duty we visit the Secesh hole, Alexandria, where the brave Ellsworth met his death, by the rebel landlord of the Marshall House, while in the act of tearing down the rebel rag. The landlord, Jackson, met him on the stairway, underneath the hole that led up to the top of the house, and shot him dead with a rifle. I have stood often on the spot where the deed was committed, but the murderer did not live long after he committed the act, for one of Ellsworth's men was near by, and avenged the death of his commander by putting his bayonet through his body; his eyes roll in his head; the soldier pulled the bayonet out, and Jackson fell down stairs a

corpse.

Alexandria is a quaint old town, and one of the bitterest in the country against the soldiers of Uncle Sam, but the people have to keep quiet, for it does them no good to show their hatred of us.

CHAPTER VIII.

FARTHER TO THE

FRONT-BUILDING WINTER QUARTERSCAMP MICHIGAN-PICKET LINE-POHICK

CHURCH-MT. VERNON.

We have got through with fort building around the defences of Washington, and move out three or four miles farther to the front, and build winter quarters, as the cold weather is fast approaching. We go to work, and in a short time have comfortable quarters, and all are ready for the wintry blasts, naming our camp after our own State, Camp Michigan. Our picket line is out about twelve miles, and we generally stay out forty-eight hours. Our line was along by the famous Pohick Church, an old brick structure that the great Washington and family used to attend, but it has seen its best days, and is now used for shelter by man and beast. There is something about the venerable old building that makes one think of the olden time, when it was in its glory. I have sat in the same pow that he was wont to sit in, listening to the word of God as expounded by the good old minister. Along side the church is an old graveyard. The tombstones indicate from the names and dates thereon, that the dead were buried there nearly two hundred years ago. What wonder that the place seems lonely and venerable? We have always kept the place unharmed, with feelings of veneration.

While coming off picket, a few of us resolved to visit Mount Vernon, the resting place of George and Martha Washington. Arriving outside the enclosure, we there leave our guns, as no soldier is allowed to carry arms inside

the sacred grounds. We are met by an aged negro, who claims to have had Washington for his master, and he talks with tears in his eyes about his good "ole massa.' We stand before the stately old mansion and think how the great man himself had often stood on the same spot. Making our way into the hall of the building, we register our name, put our mite into the box close by, to help keep the grounds in repair, and pass into a large room on the ground floor, where there are to be seen some relics of the past. In the corner is an old-fashioned musical instrument, an old knapsack of revolutionary times; a very heavy affair and looks a good deal different from our own in make, shape and weight. Ascending the stairs and entering the very room in which the great man breathed his last, we observe an old-fashioned bedstead, on which, it is said, he died. After going out on the verandah and looking off on the broad Potomac, we retrace our steps. Thence passing to the rear, we stand beneath the beautiful magnolia that was planted there by the great man himself. Taking a leaf off its branches, we next make our way to the once beautiful garden and hothouses. The gardener gives us a beautiful bouquet, which we send home as a reminiscence to our friends of our visit to this great place. Next we visit the old tomb of Washington. Near by is an ever running spring of ice cold water. After taking a drink of the cooling liquid, we proceed to the present tomb of the sacred dead. I will not undertake to describe my feelings as I gaze through the iron bars at the two spotless marble sarcophagi that encases the remains of George and Martha Washington, true in life and sleeping side by side in death. Oh, how I linger and think that if the founder of his country were to wake from his sixty years sleep, and see

his very own countrymen trying to rend the Union asunder, what would he say. I linger long around the spot and feel loth to leave; but the sun is sinking fast below the western hills, and we must get back to camp. After taking one more lingering look through the bars, I leave the lonely and silent spot to the illustrious dead, and return to camp by the nearest route, well pleased with my first visit to Mount Vernon, to which I was wont to repair at every opportunity, as I never tired of the beautiful place.

CHAPTER IX.

WINTER IN CAMP-RECONNOISANCE-FIGHTING DICK-DRESS PARADE-VISITORS-GOOD TIMES.

Winter life in camp is very weary, as it is but one routine over and over again-reveille in the morning, breakfast call, sick call, guard mount call, drill call, dinner call, which is the best of all the calls; the batallion, or brigade drill call, which is not liked very well; dress parade call, supper call, roll call and taps, which mean lights out and cover up in blankets. All this is gone through day after day, and after a time becomes tedious, leaving out the eating calls, which are always well appreciated. But we are to have something by way of a change, and the order comes to be ready to march on a reconnoisance in force, to feel of the enemy and try to find out where he is all winter. Accordingly on Christmas we take up our line of march, pass through the picket lines, and halt in front of the old church, on the crest of a hill where we have a beautiful view of the country for miles around. Our commander, General Heintzelman, takes a ride out on the crest of the hill, peers through his field glass, but no rebel is in sight. So, of course, nothing is left but to get back to camp, which is done in straggling order, all hungry, sore, and tired, and hoping that that will be our last reconnoisance, as well as the first. John Dibble lost an arm in this campaign from an accidental shot fired by one of our own

men.

We all claim that our "Fighting Dick" is the plainest general in the army, as well as one of the best. A stranger,