rations for forty-eight hours, a single corn-dodger split and with only a thin slice of bacon between the pieces.  This was a Confederate sandwich.  And on such food Southern soldiers marched incredible distances, fought desperate battles.  The world will never cease to wonder at the unfailing devotion, the magnificent courage, the unparalleled achievements of the Southern armies.  Scarcely less admirable is the heroic spirit in which they have accepted defeat; the industry which has hidden the desolation of our land with bountiful harvest, the honesty of purpose which now seeks to restore the constitution framed by our forefathers as it was, the patient yet invincible determination which has driven out tyranny and oppression, and reclaimed for posterity this beautiful Southland, rich with historic memories, made sacred and beautiful by the graves of heroes.

And these are my boys—­still—­always my boys.  From the highest places of the land they turn to give me a comrade’s greeting.  I glory in the renown of these, but just as dear and precious to me is the warm grasp of the toil-hardened hand and the smile which beams upon me from the rugged face of the very humblest of “the boys who wore the gray.”

Dear friends, this subject is to me inexhaustible; but I may no longer trespass upon your patience.  With loving, reverent hands I have lifted the veil of the past.  Let the transcendent glory streaming through penetrate the mask which time and care and sorrow have woven for the faces of my boys, and show you the brave, unfaltering hearts as I know them.

CHAPTER II.

THE CONFEDERATE REUNION AT DALLAS.

On the morning of August 6, 1885, a small party of ladies and gentlemen set forth from Shreveport to attend the Confederate reunion at Dallas, Texas.

The gentlemen of the party were veteran soldiers, and your correspondent claimed like honors. (Place this admission to my credit, for, believe me, it is a ruthless sacrifice of womanly vanity to dearer memories.)

In congenial companionship the day passed quickly.  Its close brought us to Dallas.  And here began at once an emotional experience which might well be called “a tempest of the heart,”—­glimpses of glory once real.  “Forms and scenes of long ago” appeared in such constant succession that it seemed like a resurrection of the dead and buried past.

The first object that met our view was a large Confederate battle-flag, suspended from a conspicuous building on one of the principal streets, surmounted, surrounded by “star-spangled banners,” large and small, but still there, to set our hearts throbbing wildly, to call forth a rain of blinding tears.  This was but the beginning.  Borne swiftly onward to the hotel, we momentarily started forward with streaming eyes and bated breath to gaze upon the phantom legions ever passing.  Squads of cavalry dashed by, manly, weather-beaten boys in gray, and elegant-looking officers wearing the well-remembered slouched hat with cord and feathers, and full Confederate uniforms.  Infantry and artillery officers and privates thronged the sidewalks, arm in arm, walking in half embrace, or standing with hand grasping hand.  Those not in uniform wore the badges of their respective commands, and frequently some faded remnant of “the gray.”