to all he said, a naughty character and a most unpleasant emphasis sometimes, I must admit, fully appreciated by any who chanced to displease him, but to me always as sweet and pleasant as the zephyrs blowing from “the groves of Blarney.”  Peter was an Alabama soldier.  On the first day of my installation as matron of Buckner Hospital, located then at Gainesville, Alabama, after the battle of Shiloh, I found him lying in one of the wards badly wounded, and suffering, as were many others, from scurvy.  He had been morose and fierce to all who approached him.  At first I fared no better.  “Sure, what wad a lady be wantin’ in a place like this?” said he, crossly.  “Why, comrade,” I replied, “I thought you would like to have a lady to nurse you ?” “Divil a wan,” growled he, and, drawing the coverlid over his face, refused to speak again.  I felt disheartened for the moment, but after a consultation with Dr. McAllister, surgeon in charge,—­than whom a better disciplinarian or a kinder-hearted man never lived,—­it was decided that Peter should be induced or compelled to receive my ministrations.  For several days, however, he remained sullen and most unwilling to be nursed, but this mood softened, and long before he was well enough to leave the ward the warm Irish heart had melted, and I had secured a friend whose unalterable devotion attended me through all the vicissitudes of the war.

Being permanently disabled, by reason of his wound, from service in the field, Peter was detailed for hospital service, and by his own request attached to my special corps of assistants.  He could and did in a hundred ways help me and contribute to my comfort.  No matter how many times I met him during the day, he never passed without giving me a military salute.  If I was detained by the bedside of one very ill or dying, hoping to save life, or at least to receive and treasure “for the loved ones at home” some word or message, I was sure to hear Peter’s limping step and his loud whisper, “Sure it’s dying he is; can’t ye lave him in the hands av God, an’ go to your bed?” He constituted himself, in many cases, my mentor, and deeply resented any seeming disrespect towards me.

I recall a case in point which highly amused the whole “post.”  While located at Ringgold, Georgia, it was considered desirable to remove some of the convalescents to a camp hospital at Cherokee Springs, some three miles out of town.  It became my duty to see these patients every evening, and I rode out on horseback attended by Peter.  Riding into camp one evening, I dismounted near a tent in front of which a group of officers were standing, in conversation with Dr. ——­, of Kentucky.  We exchanged a few words of greeting as I passed on to attend to my patients.  Returning, to mount my horse, I noticed that Peter rather rudely pushed before Lieutenant ——­, who came forward to assist me.  I also noticed that his face wore the old sullen look, and that his manner was decidedly