a tree to my right, and just as I got to it, I saw my comrade sink to the ground, clutching at the air as he fell dead. I kept trying to see the Yankees, so that I might shoot. I had been looking a hundred yards ahead, when happening to look not more than ten paces from me, I saw a big six-foot Yankee, with a black feather in his hat, aiming deliberately at me. I dropped to the ground, and at the same moment heard the report, and my hat was knocked off in the bushes. I remained perfectly still, and in a few minutes I saw a young Yankee Lieutenant peering through the bushes. I would rather not have killed him, but I was afraid to fire and afraid to ran, and yet I did not wish to kill him. He was as pretty as a woman, and somehow I thought I had met him before. Our eyes met, He stood like a statue. He gazed at me with a kind of scared expression. I still did not want to kill him, and am sorry to-day that I did, for l believe I could have captured him, but I fired, and saw the blood spurt all over his face. He was the prettiest youth I ever saw. When I fired, the Yankees broke and run, and I went up to the boy I had killed, and the blood was gushing out of his mouth. I was sorry.
ATLANTA FORSAKEN.
One morning about the break of day our artillery opened along our breastworks, scaring us almost to death, for it was the first guns that had been fired for more than a month. We sprang to our feet and grabbed our muskets, and ran out and asked some one what did that mean. We were informed that they were "feeling" for the Yankees. The comment that was made by the private soldier was simply two words, and those two words were "O, shucks." The Yankees had gone—no one knew whither—and our batteries were shelling the woods, feeling for them. "O, shucks."
"Hello," says Hood, "Whar in the Dickens and Tom Walker are them Yanks, hey? Feel for them with long-range "feelers.'" A boom, boom. "Can anybody tell me whar them Yanks are? Send out a few more 'feelers.' The
