"Boys, don't any of you ever give up the glorious Union on any plea for anything on earth. Let the fiercest tortures be plied upon your body before you will say one word against it. I have suffered much at the hands of Secessionists in East Tennessee, all because I loved our glorious Union, one out of many. Boys, under any circumstances, 'Don't give up the Ship,' though every man perish.”

"Lieutenant,” he continued, calling me to his side, and placing a miniature and a locket and chain in my hands, "send these to my poor wife at Memphis. Write her the particulars of my-my-my-death! Will you?"

"I will, Cox, I will," I answered, my voice husky with emotion.

He was going fast, his eyes were becoming glazed, and his breath hard and short. Once he rallied, and shouted to us all in tones which we can never forget:

"DON'T GIVE UP OUR UNION-Never! NEVER! NEVER!"

And falling back upon his pillow, Samuel Cox, the scout, was dead.

spy

and

We buried him, 'neath the tall, waving oak, which was the symbol of himself just as the golden summer sun was sinking in the West. We left the spot with soft steps, and retired to our camp. Darkness came on over the grave; all was still, save the quiet rippling of the river, and the mournful sighing of the wind in the top of the oak. A holy calm pervaded the whole scene, and the soft zephyrs sang sweetly together" over the patriot's lonely grave.

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"Hollow ye the lonely grave,

Mako its caverns deep and wide;

In the soil they died to save

Lay the brave men, side by side.
Side by side they fought and fell,

Hand in hand they met the foe;
Who has heard his grandsire tell,

Braver strife or deadlier blow?

Wake your mournful harmonies,
Your tears of pity shed for them;
Summer dew and sighing breeze
Shall be wail and requiem.
Pile the grave-mound broad and high,
Where our martyred brethren sleep,'
It shall point the pilgrim's eye,

Here to bend and here to weep."

I have little more to add. The rebels never attempted their intended raid. As all their plans, intentions, etc., were in the possession of their enemies, they knew that we would be prepared for them, and they excused themselves, very wisely too.

To the brave scout we were indebted for it all; and we could only say: "Requiescat in pace!"

THE AMENITIES OF WAR.

Now and then a little human smile brightens war's grim visage, like a flash of sunshine in an angry day. I remember one that I wish I could daguerreotype. The amenities of battle are so few, how precious they become? Let me give that little "touch of nature that makes the whole world kin." A few months ago, the Third Ohio, belonging to Streight's command, entered a town en route for Richmond, prisoners of war.

Worn down, famished, hearts heavy, and haversacks light, they were herded like dumb, driven cattle, to wear out the night. A rebel regiment, the Fifty-fourth Virginia, being camped near by, many of its men came strolling about to see the sorry show of poor, supperless Yankees. They did not stare long, but hastened away to camp, and came streaming back with coffee-kettles, corn bread, and bacon, the best they had and all they had; and straightway little fires began to

twinkle, bacon was suffering the martyrdom of the saint of the gridiron, and the aroma of coffee rose like the fragrant cloud of a thank-offering. Loyal guests and rebel hosts were mingled; our hungry boys ate and were satisfied; and for that one night our common humanity stood acquitted of the heavy charge of total depravity with which it is blackened. Night and our boys departed together. The prisoners in due time were exchanged, and are now encamped within rifle shot of Kelly's Ferry on the bank of the Tennessee. But often, around the camp fires, I have heard them talk of the Fiftyfourth Virginia, that proved themselves so immeasurably better than a brother afar off;" heard them wonder where they were, and discuss the chance that they might ever meet. When they denounced the "damnable Johnny Rebs," the name of one regiment, you may be sure, was tucked away in a snug place, quite out of the range of hard words.

And now comes the sequel that makes a beautiful poem of the whole of it. On the day of the storming of Mission Ridge, among the prisoners was the Fifty-fourth Virginia, and on Friday it trailed away across the pontoon bridge, and along the mountain road, nine miles to Kelly's Ferry. Arrived there, it settled upon the bank, like wasps, awaiting the boat. A week elapsed, and your correspondent followed suit. The major of the Third Ohio welcomed me to the warm hospitality of his quarters, and almost the first thing he said was: "You should have been here last Friday; you missed the denouement of the beautiful little drama of ours, whose first act I have told you. Will you believe the Fifty-fourth Virginia has been here! Some of our boys were on duty at the landing when it arrived. 'What regiment is this?' they asked; and when the reply was given, they started for camp like quarter horses, and shouted, as they rushed in and out among the smoky cones of the Sibleys: The Fifty-fourth Virginia is at the Ferry.' The camp swarmed in three minutes. Treasures of coffee, bacon, sugar, beef, preserved peaches, everything were turned out in force, and you may believe

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they went laden with plenty, at the double-quick, to the Ferry." The same old scene, and yet how strangely changed! The twinkling fires, the grateful incense, the hungry captives; but guests and hosts had changed places; the star-lit folds floated aloft for the bonny blue flag; a debt of honor was paid to the uttermost farthing. If they had a triumph of arms at Chattanooga, hearts were trumps at Kelly's Ferry. And there it was that horrid war smiled a human smile, and a grateful, gentle light flickered for a moment on the point of the bayonet. And yet, should the Fifty-fourth Virginia return to-morrow, with arms in their hands, to the Tennessee, the Third Ohio would meet them on the bank, fight them foot to foot, and beat them back with rain so pitiless the river would run red.

B. F. TAYLOR, of the Chicago Journal, thus writes about pets in the army. It will be seen soldiers do not lose their finer feelings:

PETS IN THE ARMY.

The following shows that nature is the same in the army as out of it:

"They have the strangest pets in the army, that nobody would dream of taking to' at home, and yet they are little touches of the gentler nature that give you some such cordial feeling, when you see them, as I am told residents of Bourbon County, Ky., habitually experience at so much a gallon! One of the boys has carried a red squirrel, through thick and thin,' over a thousand miles. 'Bun' eats hard tack like a veteran, and has the freedom of the tent. Another's affections overflow upon a slow-winking, unspeculative little owl, captured in Arkansas, and bearing a name with a classical

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smack to it-Minerva. A third gives his heart to a young Cumberland Mountain bear. But chief among camp pets are dogs. Riding on the saddle-bow, tucked into a baggagewagon, mounted on a knapsack, growling under a gun, are dogs, brought to a premature end as to ears and tails, and yellow at that; pug-nosed, square-headed brutes, sleek terriers, delicate morsels of spaniels, Tray, Blanch, Sweetheart, little dogs and all.' A dog, like a horse, comes to love the rattle and crash of musket and cannon. There was one in an Illinois regiment, and I rather think regarded as belonging to it, though his name may not be on the muster-roll, that chases .half spent shot as a kitten frolics with a ball of worsted. He has been under fire, and twice wounded, and left the tip of his tail at the battle of Stone River. Woe to the man that shall wantonly kill him. But I was especially interested in the fortunes of a little white spaniel that messed with a battery, and delighted in the name of 'Dot.' No matter what was up, that fellow's silken coat must be washed every day; and there was need of it, for when the battery was on the march they just plunged him into the sponge-bucket—not the tidiest chamber imaginable-that swings like its more peaceful cousin, the tar-bucket, under the rear axle of the guncarriage-plumped into that, clapped on the cover, and Dot was good for an inside passage. One day the battery crossed a stream, and the water came well up to the guns. Nobody thought of Dot, and when all across, a gunner looked into the bucket; it was full of water, and Dot was as dead as a dirty door-mat."

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