actice. An experienced non-commissioned officer fired the
first shot, which hit the sugar warehouse, the target. A recruit
gunner fired the second, which, falling short, saved our lives. They
knew nothing of the presence of the Filipinos or of my little
reconnoitering party.

The next day our native spies reported that Aguinaldo and his
body-guard had come down from Angeles early the morning before,
but had immediately returned.

I laughed when I heard this report, for I knew the circumstances.

The dapper little officer in khaki was Aguinaldo, and this is the
story of how I saw him.--_Sunday Globe-Democrat_.

WHAT THE WOUNDED SAY AND DO.

An American Officer's True Stories of our Latest War.--Brave Men who
Meet Death as Heroes Should.

No two men behave alike when hit in battle. There is just as much
difference in their actions as there is in the behavior of the members
of a volunteer fire brigade at a country-town conflagration. The
look of the mortally wounded is nearly always the same. There is
always that deathly pallor that creeps over the face, and that fixed
stare--horrible look of resignation--that tells so plainly that all
is over with the unfortunate soldier. A few instances will serve to
give a general idea of how the victims of the messengers of death
receive them.

On the 1st of July, a company of regular infantry, in reserve, was
lying flat on their stomachs in a sunken road, a few hundred yards from
the stone block-house of El Caney, Cuba. The men were under a terrific
fire, but were not allowed to reply to it, for ammunition was growing
scarce. For hours they remained in this position. They began to get
restless and to shift about. As long as they kept low, there was no
danger from Spanish fire, for the bank of the road was sufficiently
high to afford security. Curiosity occasionally got the better of a
man, and he would poke his head above the embankment and peer in the
direction from which the bullets were coming. In the company was a
large, muscular German, who had early become restless and curious to
see what was transpiring. He would occasionally break out and swear
because he was not given a chance to fire at the hated Dons. Of
a sudden he ripped out a choice lot of the best in his vocabulary,
raised his head above the bank, and shook his huge fist at the line of
sombreros to be seen just above the Spanish trenches to the right of
the block-house. Ping! ping! thud! "Wasn't that