been mowed off by the bullets, and great trees had been shattered by the terrible artillery fire. In places, the bodies of the slain lay upon the ground so thick that I could step from one to the other. This without exaggeration. The pallid faces of the dead men in blue were scattered among the blackened corpses of the enemy. This to me was a horrible revelation, and I have never yet heard a scientific explanation of why the majority of the dead Confederates on that field turned black. All the bodies had been stripped of their valuables, and scarcely a pair of boots or shoes could be found upon the feet of the dead. In most instances, pockets had been cut pen, and one of the pathetic sights that I remember was a poor Confederate lying on his back, while by his side was a heap of ginger cakes and

him bore the number of a Georgia regiment, embroidered, I am sure, by some tender fingers, and his waxen face, washed by the rains of the night before, was that of one who had fallen asleep, dreaming of loved ones who waited his coming in some anxious home. He was about my age. He may have been a drummer! At the sight of that poor boy's corpse, I burst into a regular boo-hoo, and started on. Here beside a great oak tree I counted the corpses of fifteen men. One of them sat stark against the tree, and the others lay about as though during the night, suffering from wounds, they had crawled together for mutual assistance and there had died. The blue and the gray were mingled together. This peculiarity I observed all over the field. It was no uncommon thing to see the

sausage, which had tumbled out of the trousers pocket, cut by some infamous thief. The unfortunate man had evidently filled his pocket the day before with the edibles found in some sutler's tent, and had been killed before he had an opportunity to enjoy his bountiful store. There was something so sad about this that it brought tears to my eyes. Further on, I passed by the road the corpse of a beautiful boy in gray, who lay with his blond curls scattered about his face, and his hands folded peacefully across his breast. He was clad in a bright and neat uniform, well garnished with gold, which seemed to tell the story of a loving mother and sisters who had sent their household pet to the field of war. His neat little hat lying beside

bodies of Federal and Confederate lying side by side as though they had bled to death while trying to aid each other. In one spot I saw an entire battery of Federal artillery which had been dismantled in Sunday's fight, every horse of which had been killed in his harness, every tumbrel of which had been broken, every gun of which had been dismounted, and in this awful heap of death lay the bodies of dozens of canOne dismounted gun was absolutely spattered with the blood and brains of the men who had served it. Here and there in the field, standing in the mud, were the most piteous sights of all the battle-field-poor wounded horses, their heads drooping, their eyes glassy and gummy, waiting for the slow coming of

noneers.

death, or for some friendly hand to end their misery. How those helpless brutes spoke in pleading testimony of the horror, the barbarism, and the uselessness of war! No painter ever did justice to a battle-field such as this, I am sure.

As I pushed onward to the front, I passed the ambulances and the wagons bringing back the wounded, and talked with the poor, bleeding fellows who were hobbling toward the river along the awful roads or through the dismal chaparral. They all brought news of victory. Toward evening I found myself in the neighborhood of the old Shiloh Church, but could get no tidings of the 70th Regiment. Night came on, and I lay down and fell asleep at the foot of a tree, having gathered up a blanket, soaked with water, which I could only use for a pillow. It

rained all night. The battle had practically

return.

ended at four o'clock that evening, and the enemy had slowly and silently withdrawn toward Corinth. Next morning I learned that my father's regiment had been sent in pursuit of the enemy, and nobody could tell when it would I found the camp, and oh, what desolation reigned there! Every tent had been pillaged, and in my father's headquarters, the gentlemen of the enemy who had camped there two nights before had left a duplicate of nearly everything they had taken. They had exchanged their dirty blankets for clean ones, and had left their old, worn brogans in the place of boots and shoes, which they had appropriated, and all about were the evidences of the feasting that had gone on during that one night of glorious possession. I remained there during the day, and late that evening the 70th Regiment came back to its deserted quarters after three days and two nights of most terrible fighting and campaigning.

At its head rode my father, whom I supposed to be dead, pale, and haggard, and worn, but unscathed. He had not seen me nor heard from me for sixty hours. He dismounted, and taking me in his arms, gave me the most affectionate embrace that my life had ever known, and I realized then how deeply he loved me. That night we stayed in the old bullet-ridden and shot-torn tent and told of our adventures, and the next day I had the pleasure of hearing General Sherman compliment him for his bravery, and say, "Colonel, you have been worth your weight in gold to me."

[To Mr. Allan Foreman, the able editor of The Journalist, is due the credit of giving to the public what General Sherman pronounces the best war story ever written, and the best account, because the truest, of the battle of Shiloh. It is not surprising to the personal friends of John A. Cockerill that anything written by him should be the best of its kind; but when Colonel Cockerill tells the story of a battle in which General Sherman took such a prominent part, and the story shall be pronounced the best account of that battle, by one who is so capable of judging as was General Sherman, it adds to the admiration of even those who so earnestly believe in the genius of John A. Cockerill as a journalist. Cockerill's tears, shed while standing near the boy who wore the gray, are more valuable to-day to a reunited nation than any act of bravery done during that dreadful day in April at Shiloh.

John A. Cockerill records none of the deeds which the spurious article (the warrior in time of peace) so delights in telling. But, between the lines, all through the article on

Shiloh, one can read the mile-stones on which are written Courage, Honesty, and Principle.]

I

HAD only one day's fighting at Gettysburg.

Two wounds, one in the foot and another in the face, received during the little excitement in the railroad cut on the first day, relegated me to the field hospital in the rear. Here I remained until the Army of Northern Virginia began its retreat southward. By that time my injuries were repaired to such an extent that I could hobble around fairly well, and could take a little solid nourishment instead of the soups and thin stuff to which my wounded mouth had confined me for three days. When we commenced our retreat, on the evening of the 4th, I was decidedly hungry, but in the hurry and confusion of loading up and stowing away our wounded I found no chance to go through my slow process of eating. The result was that after I had ridden all night across a spur of the mountain I found myself, at eleven o'clock next day, still without food and nearly famished.

About the hour named our column was halted, and not knowing the orders, I assumed that we would at least be given time to get a bite to eat. To my dismay the wagon-drivers said they had nothing, and I was informed that our brigade, rations and all, was "a long ways ahead.” was further informed, upon authority, that as soon as our horses could graze and rest a little we would continue our retreat, "rations or no rations."

I

This did not suit my ideas very well. I began prospecting on my own account. Looking to the left of the highway I saw a substantial farm dwelling about half a mile distant. The very appearance of the houses of the thrifty farmers of Pennsylvania suggests abundance, and I felt an irresistible desire to find out what good things that house contained for me. Could I go there and return in time to keep up with my comrades? Are we near the end of the column, and who is covering the retreat? Are there any "Yanks" in those woods near the right of the house? These and similar queries flashed through my mind. But that silent monitor within me-not conscience this time, but hunger-cut short my dilatory musings. At any cost my hunger must be appeased.

I reined my horse up to the fence and threw off the top rails. In a moment I was galloping across the field, over hedges and ditches, through fields of wheat and corn. Approaching the house from the rear, I halted at a distance of about a hundred yards and took a quick survey of the premises. In the front yard were half a dozen cavalry horses tied to the cherry trees. This was far from cheering, as I had no means of determining whether those horses represented Union or Confederate troopers. My aforesaid inward monitor urged me forward, however, and I rode rapidly into the yard and looked through an open window at the end of the house.

My boldness was rewarded by the welcome sight of three gray coats. Leaving my horse in company with the others under the cherry trees, I entered. On the piazza I encountered a finelooking old gentlemen, apparently the owner, whom I saluted, but who neither returned my salute nor bid me welcome. I was too hungry to stand upon ceremony, and passed on toward the kitchen end of the dwelling. I met two of our officers coming out, one of whom assured me that the young lady in charge was as mad as a wet hen," adding, "if you get anything to eat in there you will have to take it!"

Her

Upon entering the room I found three more of our officers-a captain and two lieutenants-comfortably seated at a table, stowing away buckwheat cakes and fresh country butter. A nicelooking young lady bent over the stove frying the cakes, but with evident reluctance. face was flushed with anger, and the tears were falling down her cheeks, while her eyes flashed fire. And she was certainly giving my hungry comrades a piece of her mind. She was evidently a hearty, good-natured girl, who felt that she was being greatly imposed upon, and our boys, under the genial influence of her buckwheat cakes and golden butter, were inclined to chaff her good-naturedly.

"I'll be glad when you're all gone, and I hope the good Lord will never let you live to come back here to take and carry away everything you can lay hands on. Why don't you go on back to that 'Dixie,' as you call it? You are the most hateful, ugly——————”

"There, now, madam, you are greatly mistaken; and if you will come down in Dixie we will prove to you that we are nice people, courteous, polite, and not always hungry. Besides, we will give you a nice little 'reb' for a sweetheart."

"No, indeed, you won't! I wouldn't have one of you'rebs' if he was the last man on this green earth! Our men gave you fellows a good whipping," she went on, "and now I hope you will go back where you came from and stay there. I don't want to see another one of you as long as I live!"

As the young girl thus rattled on, her tormentors leaned back in their chairs, patiently awaiting, knives in hand, another instalment of the luscious cakes, and eyeing a large bar of fresh, yellow butter.

"There, now, that is all you will get in this house. You can go on farther and rob someone else. I have nothing more for you."

While listening to this little spat I had been standing near the stove warming and drying myself, and enjoying, in anticipation, my share of the cakes. I had ridden all the preceding night in the rain, and although it was the 5th of July I was actually cold.

A moment later I found myself alone; my Georgian comrades had departed, the little cook had gone, and even the cake of butter had disappeared. I was sadly disappointed, and hungrier than ever. I looked into the tray which had contained the buckwheat batter; sure enough, it was empty. Just then the young lady returned, seized the tray, and abruptly left the room again. I began to reflect upon the advice of my brother officer, given me as I entered, and looked about to see what I could "take." Nothing whatever, of an edible character, rewarded my search. I was beginning to grow desperate, for I knew my time was short, and I was growing actually faint. Just then my fair tormentor came back again to the kitchen. Planting herself defiantly about six feet from me, she said:

"Do not stand here thinking I will give you something to eat, for you heard me tell those men that we have no more buckwheat flour, and —

She had a pleasant, hearty countenance, despite its mask of unwonted wrath. I determined to try a little diplomacy.

"My dear young lady, have you any relatives in the Federal army?"

"Yes, I have; a brother and two cousins." "Were they in the first day's fight, do you

know?"

"I know they were in General Reynolds' Corps, but I have not heard a word from them. since the battle." And the look of wrath began to fade into an expression of deep anxiety.

"What regiment do they belong to?" I asked. "Theth Pennsylvania," she responded. "Why," said I, "our fellows fought that regiment at the railroad cut."

"Perhaps you can tell me something about my brother, then," she said, eagerly.

"No, miss," I replied, "I only know that one of the colonels in that brigade was wounded and captured at that place, and that he was with me at our hospital. The surgeon of my regiment treated both of us, and our own cook prepared our food. My wound was such that I could not eat my share of the good things, so the wounded colonel took my place at mess."