receiving his death-shot--there sheltering a little while, soaking
roots, grass and soil, with red blood--the battle advances, retreats,
flits from the scene, sweeps by--and there, haply with pain and
suffering (yet less, far less, than is supposed,) the last lethargy
winds like a serpent round him--the eyes glaze in death----none
recks--perhaps the burial-squads, in truce, a week afterwards, search
not the secluded spot--and there, at last, the Bravest Soldier
crumbles in mother earth, unburied and unknown.


SOME SPECIMEN CASES

_June 18th_.--In one of the hospitals I find Thomas Haley, company M,
4th New York cavalry--a regular Irish boy, a fine specimen of youthful
physical manliness--shot through the lungs--inevitably dying--came
over to this country from Ireland to enlist--has not a single friend
or acquaintance here--is sleeping soundly at this moment, (but it is
the sleep of death)--has a bullet-hole straight through the lung. I
saw Tom when first brought here, three days since, and didn't suppose
he could live twelve hours--(yet he looks well enough in the face to
a casual observer.) He lies there with his frame exposed above the
waist, all naked, for coolness, a fine built man, the tan not yet
bleach'd from his cheeks and neck. It is useless to talk to him, as
with his sad hurt, and the stimulants they give him, and the utter
strangeness of every object, face, furniture, &c., the poor fellow,
even when awake, is like some frighten'd, shy animal. Much of the time
he sleeps, or half sleeps. (Sometimes I thought he knew more than
he show'd.) I often come and sit by him in perfect silence; he will
breathe for ten minutes as softly and evenly as a young babe asleep.
Poor youth, so handsome, athletic, with profuse beautiful shining