nding of the creek makes those beautiful walks we have so much enjoyed
in summer evenings."

"Beautiful winding walks! is it, sergeant! Shure and whin you have your
forty pound wait upon your back, forty rounds of lead and powdher in
your cartridge-box, and twenty more in your pocket, three days' rations
in your haversack, a musket on your shoulder, and army brogans on your
throtters, you are just about the first man that I know of to take
straight cuts."

* * * * *

It was a close warm day near the middle of September. The roads were
dusty and the troops exhausted. Two days previously the brigade to which
they belonged had left the pleasantest of camps, called "Camp Whipple"
in honor of their former and favorite Division Commander. Situated in an
orchard on the level brow of a hill that overlooked Washington, the
imposing Capitol, the broad expanse of the Potomac dotted with frequent
craft, the many national buildings, and scenery of historic interest,
the men left it with regret, but carried with them recollections that
often in times of future depression revived their patriotic ardor.

Over dusty roads, through the muddy aqueduct of the Chesapeake and Ohio
Canal, hurried on over the roughly paved streets of Georgetown, and
through the suburbs of Washington, they finally halted for the night,
and, as it chanced through lack of orders, for the succeeding day also,
near Meridian Hill. Under orders to join the Fifth Army Corps commanded
by Major-General Fitz John Porter, to which the Division had been
previously assigned, the march was resumed on the succeeding day, which
happened to be Sunday, and in the afternoon of which our chapter opens.

A march of another day brought the Brigade to a recent Rebel camp
ground. Traces of their occupancy were found not only in their
depredations in the neighborhood destructive of railroad bridges, but
also in letters and wall-paper envelopes adorned with the lantern-jawed
phiz of Jefferson Davis. The latter were sought after with avidity as
soon as ranks were broken and tents pitched; the more eagerly perhaps
for the reason that during the greater part of their previous month of
service they had been frequently within sound of rebel cannon, although
but once under their fire. During the previous day, in fact, they had
marched to the music of the artillery of South Mountain.

That night awakened lively recollections in the mind of Terence McCarty,