to admit visitors without a permit, and no stranger was ever allowed to feed the patients except when some particularly nourishing and suitable food was brought, when I used to take a great delight in the mutual pleasure of patient and visitor, hardly knowing which was more happy, the giver or receiver.  Our sick boy continually craved and talked about some “apple turnovers,” such as his mother used to make, but of course was denied.  One day, during my absence, an old lady gained access to the ward, and when she heard the boy’s desire for “turn-overs” promised him some.  The next day she found an opportunity to keep her promise.  At midnight, Dr. Gore and I having been hastily summoned, met at the bedside of the poor fellow, who was in a state of collapse, and died before morning.  Dr. Gore was so overcome that he actually wept.  The boy had been a patient of his from his infancy, and in a piteous letter, which I afterwards read, his mother had implored the doctor to watch over him in case of sickness.  When, under the dead boy’s pillow, was found a portion of the apple-pie, revealing the cause of his death, the doctor’s anger knew no bounds, and he gave vent to the imprecation above mentioned.

As the summer waned, our commissary stores began to fail.  Rations, always plain, became scant.  Our foragers met with little success.  But for the patriotic devotion of the families whose farms and plantations lay for miles around Ringgold (soon, alas! to fall into the ruthless hands of the enemy), even our sickest men would have been deprived of suitable food.  As it was, the supply was by no means sufficient.  One day I asked permission to try my fortune at foraging, and, having received it, left Ringgold at daylight next morning, returning by moonlight.  Stopping at every house and home, I told everywhere my tale of woe.  There was scarcely one where hearths were not lonely, hearts aching for dear ones long since gone forth to battle.  They had heard mischievous and false tales of the surgeons and attendants of hospitals, and really believed that the sick were starved and neglected, while the hospital staff feasted upon dainty food.  Occasionally, perhaps, they had listened to the complaint of some “hospital rat,” who, at the first rumor of an approaching battle, had experienced “a powerful misery” in the place where a brave heart should have been, and, flying to the rear, doubled up with rheumatism and out-groaning all the victims of real sickness or horrible wounds, had remained huddled up in bed until danger was over.  After having been deceived a few times by these cowards, I became expert at recognizing them, and paid them no attention whatever.  I really believe that in some cases it was a physical impossibility for men to face the guns on a battle-field, and I have known instances of soldiers who deliberately shot off their own fingers to escape a fight.  These men were conscious of their own defects, and often, smarting under a knowledge that the blistering,