upon the misery they could not relieve.  Others seemed to feel only deepest pity and a desire to “do something for the poor soldiers.”  As there were so many, it was difficult to distribute impartially:  some must be left out.  The ladies, finding so many craving buttermilk, sweet milk, home-made bread, etc., did not well know how to manage; but the soldiers themselves soon settled that.  “I ain’t so very bad off,” one would say, “but that little fellow over yonder needs it bad; he’s powerful weak, and he’s been studying about buttermilk ever since he came in.”

All the time his own emaciated frame was trembling from exhaustion, and, spite of his courage, his eyes greedily devoured the dainties which he denied himself.  This was but one of a thousand instances of self-abnegation which go to make up a record as honorable, as brave, as true as that of the glorious deeds which such men never failed to perform whenever opportunity offered.

During this foraging trip, and once afterwards during a spell of fever which lasted a week, I was cordially received and elegantly entertained at the house of Mr. and Mrs. Russell, who lived about ten miles from Ringgold.  This aged couple were eminently and most intelligently patriotic.

Their sons were in the Confederate service.  Their time and their substance were literally at the disposal of all who served the cause.  The silver-haired mother knitted and spun incessantly for the soldiers.  The father superintended the raising of vegetables, and sent wagon-loads to the hospitals.

Miss Phemie, a lovely young girl, was a frequent visitor to the hospitals, and often herself dispensed the golden butter and rich buttermilk prepared under her own direction; she would even dispense with the carriage and ride in town on the wagon, that she might bring plenty of vegetables, fruit, etc.  Convalescents were entertained royally at the old homestead; those who could not go so far were often treated to pleasant and invigorating rides.

To me Miss Phemie’s friendship and kindness brought many comforts, and I remember gratefully the whole family.

Through the summer frequent skirmishes and fights were heard of, and sick and wounded men came in every day, and every few days squads of men who had “reported for duty” took their places at the front.  At last, about the first of September, 1863, appeared the never-failing forerunner of a real battle near at hand,—­a small brigade of “hospital rats,” distorted, drawn up, with useless crippled fingers, bent legs, crooked arms, necks drawn awry, let us say by—­rheumatism.  A day or two later was fought the sanguinary and fiercely-contested battle of Chickamauga.  I could not if I would describe this or any other battle, nor is it necessary, for historians have well accomplished this duty.  The terrible results to the brave men engaged only appeared to me, and these guided me to an opinion