shots at the time the stampeding was going on with us, were running for dear life’s sake across the fields, worse scared, if possible, than we ourselves.  They were three of a scouting party, who had eluded our pickets, and seeing our good, easy, and indifferent condition, took it into their heads to have a little amusement at our expense.  But the sound of their guns in the quiet surrounding, no doubt excited the Yankees as much as it did the Confederates.  This was an adventure not long in reaching home, for to be shot at by a real live Yankee was an event in every one’s life at the time not soon to be forgotten.  But it was so magnified, that by the time it reached home, had not the battle of Bull Run come in its heels so soon, this incident would no doubt have ever remained to those who were engaged in it as one of the battles of the war.  The only casualty was a hole shot through a hat.  I write this little incident to show the difference in raw and seasoned troops.  One year later such an incident would not have disturbed those men any more than the buzzing of a bee.  Picket duty after this incident was much more stringent.  Two men were made to stand on post all night, without relief, only such as they gave each other.  Half of the company’s reserve were kept awake all night.  Orders were given that the utmost silence should prevail, the men were not even to speak above a whisper, and on the approach of anyone they were to be hailed with the command, “Halt, who comes there?” If a satisfactory answer was given, they were allowed to pass.  If not, to remain standing, and an officer of the guard called.  At night they were to call “halt” three times, and if no answer, they were to fire and retreat to the reserve.

One night, shortly after this, one of the companies from Spartanburg had been sent out about three miles to the intersection of a country road leading off to the left.  Down this country road, or lane, were two pickets.  They concealed themselves during the day in the fence corners, but at night they crawled over into a piece of timber land, and crouched down behind a large oak.  The shooting incident of a few days before made the two pickets feel somewhat tender at thus being alone in the forest, when at any moment an enemy might creep upon them sufficiently near as to shoot them in the dark.  Everything was as quiet as the grave.  The stars, peeping faintly out from behind the clouds, midnight came, and each began to nod, when a twig breaks some distance in front, then another, then the rustling of dry leaves.  Their hearts leap to their throats and beat like sledge hammers.  One whispers to the other, “Whist, some one is coming.”  They strain their ears to better catch the sound.  Surely enough they hear the leaves rustling as if some one is approaching.  “Click,” “click,” the two hammers of their trusty rifles spring back, fingers upon the triggers, while nearer the invisible comes.  “Halt,” rang out in the midnight air;