nionists, was yet a plentitude of "moon-shine,"
and this the soldiers drew out, either by stealth or the eloquent
pleadings of a faded Confederate bill. Poultry abounded in the far
away sections of the country, not yet ravaged by either army, which it
was a pleasure to those fixtures of the army called "foragers" to hunt
up. The brotherhood of "foragers" was a peculiar institute, and some
men take as naturally to it as the duck to water. They have an eye
to business, as well as pleasure, and the life of a "forager" becomes
almost an art. They have a peculiar talent, developed by long practice
of nosing out, hunting up, and running to quarry anything in the way
of "eatables or drinkables." During the most stringent times in a
country that had been over-run for years by both armies, some men
could find provisions and delicacies, and were never known to be
without "one drink left" in their canteens for a needy comrade, who
had the proper credentials, the Confederate "shin-plaster." These
foragers had the instinct (or acquired it) and the gifts of a "knight
of the road" of worming out of the good housewife little dainties,
cold meats, and stale bread, and if there was one drop of the "oh be
joyful" in the house, these men of peculiar intellect would be sure to
get it. So with such an acquisition to the army, and in such a country
as East Tennessee, the soldiers did not suffer on that cold Christmas
day. Bright and cheerful fires burned before every tent, over which
hung a turkey, a chicken, or a choice slice of Tennessee pork, or,
perhaps, better still, a big, fat sausage, with which the smoke-houses
along the valleys of the French Broad were filled.

It was my misfortune, or rather good fortune, to be doing picket duty
on the Holston on that day. Here I had an adventure rather out of the
regular order in a soldier's life, one more suited to the character
of Don Quixote. I, as commandant of the post, had strict orders not
to allow anyone to cross the river, as "beyond the Alps lie Italy,"
beyond the Holston lay the enemy. But soldiers, like other men, have
their trials. While on duty here a buxom, bouncing, rosy cheeked
mountain lass came up, with a sack of corn on her shoulder, and
demanded the boat in order that she might cross over to a mill and
exchange her corn for meal. This, of course, I had to reluctantly
deny, however gallantly disposed I might otherwise have been. The lass
asked me, with some feeling of scorn, "Is