panied by one of the family. Whenever
the deep, hoarse bark of Beauregard announced the appearance of
strangers, it was known that the dog must be chained. Not once, but
many times, I have seen a load of "fodder" or "garden-truck" driven
into the yard and immediately _surrounded_ by this one big dog, who
would keep the black driver crouching at the very top of the load with
"ashy" face and chattering teeth, while his besieger walked growling
around the wagon, occasionally jumping up upon the chance of seizing
an unguarded foot. Until the dog was securely chained nothing would
induce his prisoner to venture down. No chicken-thieves dared to put
in an appearance so long as this faithful beast kept watch upon the
premises. And for his faithfulness he was doomed to destruction. Such
a state of security in any place could not long be tolerated. The
would-be thieves, exasperated by the impunity with which fine, fat
turkeys, geese, ducks, and chickens walked about before their very
eyes, and smoke-houses, melon-patches, and wood-piles remained
undisturbed, at last poisoned faithful Beauregard, whose death left
the home-place unprotected, for not one of his successors ever
followed his example or proved half as watchful.

PART III.

AFTER TWENTY YEARS.[2]

[2] These articles, originally prepared for _The Southern
Bivouac_ and "South Illustrated," are here republished by special
request.

CHAPTER I.

"MY BOYS."

_Address to the Wives and Children of Confederate Veterans._

I have been often and earnestly requested by "my comrades" to address
to you a few words explanatory of the tie which binds me to them and
them to me. They tell me, among other things, that you "wonder much,
and still the wonder grows," that I should presume to call grave and
dignified husbands and fathers "my boys." Having promised to meet
their wishes, I must in advance apologize for the egoism which it is
quite impossible to avoid, as my own war record is inseparable from
that of my comrades.

Does it seem strange to you that I call these bronzed and bearded men
"my _boys_?" Ah, friends, in every time-worn face there lives always
for me "the light of other days." Memory annihilates the distance
between the long-ago and the present.

I seem to see them marching, with brave, bright faces and eager feet,
to meet the foe. I hear the distant boom of cannon, growing fainter as
they press the retreating enemy. And then, ala