The daily morning journal and courier., 1894-09-01

| irhu, or bloodsred bayohet, or belchihs cannon and of the all consuming torch ito the horrible slaughter Of Rough and-Ready and Jonesbofough; until,
 just thirty years from our next first
 September day. a shout went up that shook the earth and split the sky:
 Atlanta is ours" while the brave but defeated confederates withdrew 10 Lovejoy's; and the face of the earth. almost from Chattanooga 10 Atlanta. scared as with flame. biackehed as by deadly frosts. was putrid desoiate desert, silent as it's buried and un- buried dead!
 On dress parade and In drill service. even in occasional gallant brushes with an enemy. the field artillery guidon and his tiny flag are well enough and pretty enough as military trappings; but where there are ceaseless battle and carnage. the need Is desperate Tor every human at the guns.
 As I pleaded for a place like this. Captain Cooper smiled grimiy. took old Charlie for an extra saddle horse and promptly turned me over 10 our most doughty fighter, Sergeant Dennis McGee of the center section guns.
 Faith, I'll put you where the inimy niver'Il clap eye on ye, fur tn smoke" said Dennis with a wicked twinkle in his little green eyes.
 And so he did.
 It'll be Number B. yell be-" he add ed sternly; "t thumb tn vint. and fire the gun. An, mind me words. me lad: if ye iver let air in Ter Qhe cannon). an cause premachure discharge. or break away on yer lanyard. afore l guy tn word. I'll just impty tn six barrels O me revolver into tn small O yer poreen back"
 | With similar engaging rallyings from Dennis, took my place at the gleaming twenty-four-pounder and kept 1t to the end.
 | I do not know what the poet-sung bravery of battle heroes Is. I remem- Der 1t all as a terrible dream where knew that death was ahead and where I felt as sure that death was behind. l simply struggled with all the little might in me, almost senselessly and altogether mechanically to accomplish my atom-like toll in the measureless tragedies of the hour. | In such dolorous times there Is no chance for respite no place for hu- manizing companionship; no moments for more than the dumb and ceaseless effort to do and live and kill.
 Yet if it were possible to intensity the terrible strain upon mental and physical being into keener activity, l know that the added impetus ever came to me, not from the shouts of vic l tory above the groans of the dying, but from those humber and to my boyish nature subtler promptings to | valorous savagery, in the approving words, glances or smiles of the officers and men about me.
 Look at the fire in Little Buttons eyew Corporal Burr would laughingly halloa to the men of the right or left section guns, as we were warming up to some rattling engagement. "We took thirty-seven positions at Peachtree," Corporal Ez Carter would proudly retort, as he cut in two bar of Daisy Deane," which he was end lessly and plaintively whistling or sing ing in battle or out, land Little But | tons never lost his grip at the guns wheel, never missed tight vent and never got rattled with his lanyardw No, and he never squealed when the big Johnnie Reb yanked him, that day, over his gun and was bringin' his sabre down on him like slicin' sow belly an Irish Dennis shot the big Reb over him, an they stuck there in the blood on the sizzlin gun together" snorted Freem Harford, our brawny Number 1, chucking me under the chin and smiling encouragingly into the al- ready set features of my tiny boyish face. Q
 Faith, if we'd had Little Buttons at Aughrim-sure that's over agin Bal linasloe-" Sergeant McGee would add with backward prophecy and wise and solemn smile, "ould Ireland'd be old Ireland still, an not be beggared up"
 And so the running fire of half satire and half compliment would flash among the guns or between the limbers and caissons, or be taken up by the sprawling postillions; while Big Andy, the German bugler, grave as kaiser, would polish his bugle on his sleeve or silently nip comforting pinches of snuff, and Captain Cooper, Lieutenants Cunningham and Pratt, and even hand some Orderly Sergeant Powers, would look around upon their men as if to say, Were not all regulation size, nor age nor dress; but we're fighters, lads, Little Buttons one and all!' or still be- stow on me glance half of pity and half of affection; all of which-and nev- CT the thrill of victory or the triumph in brave enemy's defeat-kept my diminutive being and childish spirit in dogged, tensest key.
 I say these things because I always look back upon that time and upon that soldier lad almost as a separate epoch and distinca personality from those in which I have ever really ex- isted; and also in the nature of con- fession of meritless boyish foolhardi- ness which won me whatever affec- about me had in their inclination or power to bestow.
 In the listless and idle September and October days that followed Sherman s great victory, which was really the be- ginning of the end of the American civil war, Battery D was encamped with various other commands near the hamlet of East Point, few miles south of the city of Atlanta.
 Old Charlie and the little, flag had been returned to me; and to the trifling duties of guidon had been added the more onerous camp life exactions of company clerk. In this capacity car