and forth over our heads, and we often "ducked" instinctively when
the missile was at least forty feet above us. Even our horses
shuddered at the sound.

I resolved to learn if the men were sharing in my emotions--in
brief, what effect the situation had upon them--and rode slowly
down our regimental line. So vivid was the impression of that long
array of awed, pallid faces that at this moment I can recall them
distinctly. There were strange little touches of mingled pathos
and humor. Meadow-larks were hemmed in on every side, too
frightened to fly far beyond the rude alarms. They would flutter
up into the sulphurous air with plaintive cries, then drop again
into the open spaces between the troops. At one time, while we
were standing at our horses' heads, a startled rabbit ran to us
for cover. The poor little creature meant a dinner to the
fortunate captor on a day when a dinner was extremely
problematical. We engaged in a sharp scramble, the prize being won
by the regimental surgeon, who kindly shared his game with me.

General Bayard, commanding our brigade, was mortally wounded, and
died like a hero. He was carried to a fine mansion near which he
had received his injury. Many other desperately wounded men were
brought to the spacious rooms of this abode of Southern luxury,
and the surgeons were kept busy all through the day and night. It
was here I gained my first experience in hospital work. This
extemporized hospital on the field was so exposed as to be
speedily abandoned. In the morning I recrossed the Rappahannock
with my regiment, which had been ordered down the river on picket
duty. Soon after we went into winter quarters in a muddy
cornfield. In February I resigned, with the purpose of completing