HE picket experience of Colonel John B. Weber, just related to me by a friend, recalls to mind an incident in my own experience in which, as in this case, Texans were the disturbing element. It was in the summer of 1864, after the Union army had settled down around Petersburg. A portion of our cavalry was doing picket duty on the left of the line, and about the middle of July the First Maine Cavalry, in which I was then a sergeant, was sent out to picket near what was known as the "Gurley Farm." I was detailed as sergeant of one of the reliefs, and was assigned to a line about two miles in length, with the Gurley mansion in the centre. This mansion was situated on a road which ran across my line, and directly into and beyond the enemy's lines. The custom had been for the sergeant of each relief to pay personal attention to the pickets from the mansion to the right of the line, while a corporal attended to the pickets on the left of the road, under direction of the sergeant. I followed this custom, remaining at the mansion, and occasionally riding along the line. The enemy's pickets The enemy's pickets

were not more than seventy-five yards away, in the edge of some woods, in plain sight, with an open field between the two picket lines. I had scarcely made myself familiar with the surroundings, when a man from the enemy's pickets came walking out upon the road a short distance, waving a paper. I knew what this meant from previous experiences, but as I had no paper other than an old copy of a religious weekly, I did not at first think it worth while to offer an exchange, especially as I knew it was against orders to communicate with the enemy. But as he continued to wave the paper, the comrade on post in the road wished very much to go down and talk with the picket in gray, so I finally gave him the paper and he went. I watched the meeting with a good deal of interest, half inclined to wish that I were a private instead of a sergeant, so that I might go myself. In due time my picket returned, bringing me a Petersburg paper of that morning, and a kind note from the enemy's picket, expressed in such a manner that I not only knew that he could be trusted, but that he and I were brothers. I was told that he objected to so unequal an exchange of papers, but finally accepted the religious weekly.

The second day I had pleasant communications now and then with my friend on the other picket line, we both happening to be on duty at the same time, during which I learned that the Ninth Virginia and Fifth North Carolina regiments were on duty in our front. While I was happy in so comfortable picket duty, and without a care or thought of trouble, matters became somewhat complicated on the left of my line, though I was unconscious of it until the story was told to me by the corpora after all was over. Between the two picket lines was a field of oats, and some one, from which side I never knew, suggested that the pickets of the two forces suspend duty and cut some of that grain for the horses. This was agreed to, and in less time than it takes to tell it, the men in blue and the men in gray were freely mingling together in that field of waving grain, chatting like old friends, trading coffee for tobacco, etc., while our officer of the day endeavored to trade horses with an officer in gray. But before this last bargain was arranged, one of the general's staff came to visit the pickets, and was, as in duty bound, very much "astonished" at the scene. The men of both sides resumed their proper places quickly and assumed a warlike appearance, and all went on as before. We supposed the matter would be reported to the general, of course, and we all felt uneasy, but the only official notice taken of the matter, so far as we knew, was the issuing of more stringent orders against holding communication with the pickets of the enemy.

The next morning after this commingling of the blue and the gray, as my pickets were being relieved, I was startled by the sound of rapid firing on the right of my line. The next relief had gone up the line, and some of my men had been relieved and had returned to the mansion. I, with others, was enjoying a morning wash at the pump in front of the house, and some of the men were taking a bath inside the house. We got ourselves together and started up the line as quickly as we could, but long before we got to the right the firing had stopped. We found that an attack had been made, one of my men captured, another's horse shot, and others of the pickets driven in. There was no further demonstration, and we returned to camp. I was mad clear through, and feeling very badly. I could not help believing that I was some to blamethat perhaps my friendly relations with the picket gray had caused me to be less careful; that he

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had lulled me into a sense of security purposely, that I might be less watchful and this attack be better made. If so, one of my boys was a prisoner through my carelessness. I was not happy that forenoon, and was feeling pretty ugly when it came again time for my relief to go on duty. Hardly were my men posted and I in my position near the mansion, when my picket friend in gray appeared, waving a paper, as if nothing had happened, and beckoning for some one to come down and see him. That was too much, and had I had a carbine, I think I should have fired on him, as for a moment my anger was beyond conAs it was, it was with difficulty that I refrained from ordering my picket to shoot at him. At last, seeing that he was uncommonly anxious, I allowed the picket to go down and see what he wanted. When he returned he brought me a note from my comrade in gray, expressing his sorrow for what occurred that morning, and explaining that his command had nothing to do with it; that the regiment on their left, which was opposite the right of my line, had been relieved the night before by a Texas regiment; that the Texans knew nothing about picket duty, and had made the attack. Confidence was restored, and I felt kindly toward my acquaintance on the opposite line again, and was sorry that I had doubted him at all.

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I am reminded of another picket incident. This was on the Rappahannock River at Freeman's Ford, in the fall of 1863. The enemy's pickets were on the other side of the river, within conversation distance, and communication was frequent and good-natured. One day I rode to the lower end of my beat at the ford, and found there the picket in blue, a man in gray, and our officer of the day, in earnest conversation. watched them eagerly, and in a few moments the picket in gray recrossed and returned to duty, and the officer of the day rode away. I learned from the picket that the soldier across the river wished to trade tobacco for a pocket-knife, and he invited him over, promising him safe return. Before the trade was completed, however, the officer of the day came along and took the visitor prisoner, but the picket in blue told the officer that he alone was to blame; that the other came over on his promise that he should go back, and that the officer might punish him if he chose, but the "Johnny" must go back. Fortunately, the officer was captain of the picket's company, and knew him to be a true man and a good soldier, and after thinking the matter over for a

Picket duty was not the worst duty of the service, by any means. In fine weather it was a pleasure, and even in bad weather we managed to get some comfort out of it. There were many duties that were much more unpleasant than picket. We did not feel that there was any special danger in it, and yet there was enough to keep us ever watchful. We had no fear whatever of the enemy's pickets firing on us. They wished to keep on good terms as much as we did, and we always had a good understanding with them, but it was necessary to keep watch for any movement which indicated an advance upon our force. If their pickets were in our front, we felt as safe as in camp, and often quite as comfortable. Even when campaigning outside of our lines and put on post in the enemy's country,

to be attacked I should hear them coming soon enough to give the alarm and get out of the way. I remember thinking how worried my good friends at home would be if they could know just how their soldier boy was situated that night, and yet I was perfectly comfortable, with the exception of being somewhat lonesome, as the hours dragged slowly away, and was perfectly safe.

During the winter of 1862-63, when we were picketing along the Rappahannock, picket duty was better than remaining in camp or doing fatigue duty at Belle Plain Landing. Our quarters that winter were very poor, in some cases a shelter tent pitched on the ground, with the bed on the ground at the rear, and a hole dug in the ground in front so the soldier could sit comfortably on the bed and put his feet in the hole. The camp-ground was a poor one, the weather bad, fatigue duty was abundant, and camp duty, drill, etc., were uncomfortable and irksome. On picket, however, we were more free and easy. There was no drill, fatigue duty, or anything of the kind, no "poppycock" review or dress parade. Instead of being cooped up in uncomfortable quarters, we were all under one shelter, all clustered around one camp-fire, and everything was more social and pleasant, while the duty was neither hard nor unpleasant, save for an occasional spell of bad weather. Indeed,

where an attack might be expected at any moment, we had no special sense of danger in the situation. I remember one moonlight night, when we were three or four days' march from our lines, being posted on picket on the brow of a hill behind some thick woods. I thought it a strange place to post a picket, but did not argue the matter. I was left there alone

-no friendly picket in sight. Those woods might conceal a regiment of the enemy and I not be aware of it, while they could see me plainly in the clear moonlight. I didn't anticipate any danger. I knew if the enemy's pickets were in the woods I was all right-the pickets of the two armies were friends always-and if our force was

I remember instances where we asked permission to remain on picket after the time was out, preferring that to going to camp in the storm. After the battle of Fredericksburg the relations between the pickets were most cordial. We had plenty of good old army coffee and sugar and no money, the enemy's pickets had plenty of tobacco and no money. We wanted tobacco, for a cavalryman without his pipe was out of tune. They wanted coffee and sugar. Between us we demonstrated in a remarkable degree the truth of the saying, "A fair exchange is no robbery." We exchanged to the mutual benefit of both. So general did this trading and this communication between the pickets become, that orders were

issued from the headquarters of both armies to put a stop to it. After that communication was carried on upon the sly, and of course there was less of it. I was on post one morning and noticed that the pickets on the other shore were very busily at work. Soon I saw what looked like a tiny sail-boat crossing the river toward me. I watched it with much interest as it came nearer and nearer, but as luck would have it, the wind and current carried it below my post, and the comrade on the next post got it. It proved to be a raft made of corn-stalks, with a newspaper set for a sail, and some good tobacco for a load. That comrade was happy enough, and for the next few days his pet saying as he filled his pipe was, "My ship's come in." While visiting in Riverside, Cal., last summer, I met a man who formerly wore the gray, and who to-day carries a Yankee bullet in his body. We became quite well acquainted, and swapped war stories to our heart's content. One day we were speaking of picket duty, when he said he was on picket on the Rappahannock that winter, and spoke of trading with our pickets with the aid of these little corn-stalk rafts. As we talked the matter over we found that he was on duty opposite our line at this time, and it was very likely that he sent over this particular ship on this particular morning. I promptly thanked him in behalf of my comrade who secured the cargo.

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It was quite a common thing for the pickets to banter each other by singing out across the river such phrases as "How are you, Yank?" How are you, Johnny Reb?" "How are you, Abe Lincoln ?" "How are you, Jeff Davis?" "How are you, Bull Run?" How are you, Antietam?" etc., but I was not prepared, one morning in the latter part of January, at the time of the attempted movement of the army, have the enemy's pickets sing out, "How are you, Burnside stuck in the mud?" which was the first information we, who had been on picket all the time, received of the failure of that movement.

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If memory serves rightly, the enemy's pickets badgered us more than we did them. They had the best of us. We were on horses, not allowed to dismount, and had a long beat to patrol, which kept us busy all the time. They were infantry, and at each picket post had their little tent, with a little fire, and three or four men. There they lived cosily, taking turns of duty and enjoying themselves the rest of the time. It was rather aggravating to see them taking so much comfort

while we had to watch them in the cold and storm, but there was no help for it. One morning, just at daylight, as I was shivering away in the cold morning air after nearly two hours' duty, and looking anxiously for the next relief, one of the pickets across the river sang out to me: "Come over here, Yank, and warm you; you are most froze, I know you are." I wasn't particularly good-natured at that fling at my discomfort, so I made no answer, but I got square with my more comfortable friend that night. It was a custom for them when they heard a shot along the picket line to put out their fires immediately and "lay low and keep dark," so as not to give any clue to their presence should the firing become general. I was aware of that fact, as I had many times seen them hastily putting out their fires under such circumstances. That night, while on post, I listened to the sounds of cheerful conversation and of laughter which were borne across the Rappahannock until it seemed to me the pickets were taking too much comfort, when somehow or other my carbine was discharged. I was much pleased to see them kick the embers in every direction and hear their voices go out with the fire. The corporal came riding down to see what was the matter, and called me pet names on learning that the fire was purely accidental, but I was satisfied.

I was so fortunate as to be appointed corporal that winter, and the first time I went on picket in that capacity an incident occurred which, if it was not the origin of a since familiar term, was the first instance of its use within my recollection, though the emphasis at tle time was somewhat different than it was after the phrase became a slang expression. It happened that I was detailed with the first relief, and as we rode to the line the corporal of the old picket accompanied us to show me the line and the various posts, to explain the surroundings and transmit to me the orders, and to call in his own men. As we rode along he related a joke that was played upon one of his men while there. Not far from the upper post, and in rear of it, was an old grave. As the victim of the joke went on duty the first time, the man whom he relieved told him that at midnight the night before the ghost of a man was seen near that grave, riding around on horseback, without any head. This so frightened the man that he did not dare to go on duty on the midnight relief, but instead hired a braver comrade to stand his picket for him. When I posted my relief, between eleven and