army, we were hardly ever separated, either in the camp, on the march, or on the battle-field.

In about half an hour or so, the nurses came to take him into the operating-room. As he was carried out, he said: "Farewell, boys! farewell!" In two hours afterward he breathed his last! As I watched by him for a few minutes-a few minutes, reader, for I went from one dying man to another, and from the bedside of the dying to the grave, and from the grave to the bedside again-O God! this is war!-as I watched by him a few minutes, I thought of that brave, noble heart yearning for a mother's soothing voice, and the gentle pressure of a mother's soft hand, and whose last hours were troubled only by the thought of her loneliness and distress; and I wondered whether that mother, all unconscious, perhaps, of the condition of her dear boy, was, even then, praying for him as she used to pray with him, in other days, beside a little crib, while she taught him to lisp, "Now I lay me down to sleep."

As a fitting close to this hospital incident, I append the following extract from my note-book:

"Wednesday, May 28, 1862.-Corporal Thomas Johnson, Company D, Thirty-fourth Regiment Ohio Volunteer Infantry, died this evening, a few hours after having leg amputated. He was from Kenton, Ohio, and was wounded at the battle of Princeton."

CHAPTER IV

ANGELS IN THE HOSPITAL-WOMAN'S WORK-A REMARKABLE DEATHBED-A MOTHER'S INFluence.

THE wife who girds her husband's sword,
'Mid little ones who weep or wonder
And bravely speaks the cheering word,
What though her heart be rent asunder,
Doom'd nightly in her dreams to hear
The bolts of death around him rattle,
Hath shed as sacred blood as e'er

Was poured upon a field of battle!

The mother who conceals her grief,

While to her breast her son she presses,
Then breathes a few brave words and brief
Kissing the patriot brow she blesses;

With no one but her secret God

To know the pain that weighs upon her,
Sheds holy blood as e'er the sod

Received on Freedom's field of honor!

T. BUCHANAN READ.

MINISTERING ANGELS.

WE have had angel visits in the army. Angels have ministered to the suffering patriot soldier in many a camp and hospital, and on many a battlefield. Not angels direct from heaven, nor angels with white wings and golden crowns, as represented by poets and painters; not angels who are considered

superior to some of the little frailties of humanityno, nor angels whose visits are said to be few and far between-but angels of the earth who never were in heaven (unless Beecher's "Conflict of Ages" be true), but who, we earnestly pray, may yet be arrayed in white robes, be adorned with unfading crowns, and dwell forever in the city of God; angels in veritable human bodies, and-be it faintly whispered-not always superior to some of the frailties supposed to be incident to such habitations. Yes, to be plainer still, angels who have nimble fingers, and who rattle knitting-needles, and flourish scissors, and thrust with thimbles, in a way that looks as if they had a very close connection with something more practical than poetic. "Angels! Bah! You mean ladies!" sneers some cynical old bachelor, who never was pleased in his life, and never intends to be. "Angels! Pretty angels, forsooth!" exclaims some long-faced Pharisee, who thinks he is pious, when he is only bilious, and who considers it a special mark of virtue to make a sanctimonious outcry against the failings of men in general (except himself, good soul!) and of women in particular. Yes, angels! ye solitary croakers and ye canting Pharisees, who perform the double drama of saints at church and sinners at home! Yes, angels! all ye true, noble hearts who can understand the unspoken wants of the sad and suffering, and who can appreciate the noble efforts of mother and wife and sister to supply those wants. Yes, angels truly! all ye noble women of the loyal North, who have made sacrifices so heroically, and labored so faithfully and perseveringly in your Soldiers' Aid Societies, and

done so much for God and humanity in the day of the nation's deepest distress.

But what has all this to do with the army, which, at the best, is not the most favorable place to meet with angels, either from heaven or earth? Very much, dear reader-very much indeed; and if you have never been in the army, perhaps you will understand my idea of the angelic in camp-life, if I paint you two living pictures as they might have been seen at the time referred to in the previous chapter.

FIRST PICTURE.

It is a large room or hall, and running its entire length are six rows of rough cots or bunks. Come up stairs. Here is a room of similar dimensions, and containing the same number of cots. On each of these rough cots lies a wounded soldier. Here is one whose arm was amputated a day or two since. He is very weak and discouraged, for unfavorable symptoms have appeared. He has only a little loose straw laid on the boards for his bed, and his overcoat or knapsack is his only pillow. He is hungry, but can not eat the hard crackers and coffee, which is all he can. get. Here is another, wounded in the breast, who, in his agony, rolls his head uneasily from side to side. He will die, likely, to-night. There is another near by. A ball went crashing through his leg, and you can see, from the appearance of the sufferer, that there is little hope of his recovery. Yonder is another, who has been gashed terribly. He is bleeding to death, and a few hours will close the scene. Close by you

there is a mere youth, whose shoulder has been torn by a piece of shell. He looks deathly pale, and is wasted to a skeleton. He says if he had something nice, such as his mother would get up for him, he would get well right away. You see that poor fellow close by the window there, propped up by a couple of knapsacks? He may die any moment, for you could almost turn your hand in the gaping wound through his lungs. Go from cot to cot, and suffering is seen everywhere. Now, just look a little closer. Can you see a single pillow, or sheet, or bed-cover? Can you see a clean garment on those poor sufferers? No, not one! A coarse army blanket has been spread on the scanty allowance of straw; the wearied, wounded soldier has been laid down on it, and another coarse blanket has been thrown over him. Nobly the surgeons and nurses have been working to render the poor fellows as comfortable as possible, but the hospital stores are nearly exhausted. This large draft on our resources was totally unexpected, and we are forty-five miles from the nearest supplies. The men look haggard, dirty, and distressed. pity them!

God

"Click! click! click!" goes the key of the telegraph instrument, and the electric messenger tells the tale of suffering and want and death to those who are in comfort and peace at home, hundreds of miles off.

Day succeeds day, and night, weary, dreary night, comes and goes. Cries of pain, moans of deep distress, labored breathings, murmured prayers for mercy, and long last sighs are heard every day and every