were the remnants of companies, regiments, and brigades, many of them Louisianians, and from other States outside the Confederate lines.  Had there been any fighting to do, they would still have “taken a hand,” maimed as they were.  The monotony of hospital camp-life made them restless; the rules they found irksome, and constantly evaded; they growled, complained, were always “in hot water,” and almost unmanageable.

The first time I passed among them they eyed me askance, seeming, I feared, to resent the presence of a woman.  But I made it my daily custom to visit their part of the camp, standing by their camp-fires to listen to their “yarns,” or to relate some of my own experiences, trying to make their hardships seem less, listening to their complaints, meaning in earnest to speak to Dr. Beatty regarding palpable wrongs.  This I did not fail to do, and whenever the doctor’s sense of justice was aroused, he promptly acted on the right side.  I do not wish to convey to my readers the idea that there were men always sullen and disagreeable.  Far from it, they were a jolly set of men when in a good humor, and, like all Irishmen, full of wit and humor.  After I became known to them their gentle, courteous treatment of me never varied.  They were very fond of playing cards, but whenever I appeared upon one of the avenues, every card would disappear.  Not one ever failed to salute me, often adding a “God bless you, ma’am, may the heavens be your bed,” etc.  Disliking to interfere with their only amusement, I let them know that I did not dislike to see them playing cards.  At this they were very pleased, saying, “Sure, it’s no harrum; it’s not gambling we are; divil a cint have we to win or lose.”  One day I stopped to look on a moment at a game of euchre.  One of the players had lost an arm (close to the shoulder).  Said he, “Sure, ma’am, it’s bating the b’ys intirely, I am.”  I did not understand, so he explained, with a comic leer at the others,—­“Sure, haven’t I always the ‘lone hand’ on thim?” At once I recalled a similar remark made by an Irish soldier lying in the hospital at Newnan, who had just lost one of his legs; when I condoled with him, he looked up brightly, and, pointing at his remaining foot, explained, “Niver mind, this feller will go it alone and make it.”

Among the surgeons in camp was one who had highly offended these convalescents by retiring to his cabin, pulling the latch-string inside and remaining deaf to all calls and appeals from outside.  Mutterings of discontent were heard for a while, but at last as there was no further mention of the matter, I believed it was ended.