How exuberantly bright, restful, and happy were those long July days on the foothills of the Cumberland Mountains, after the fatigues and hardships, the endless rains, the fathom less mud, the angry, swollen streams, the exhaust ing marches, and the feverish anxieties of the Tullahoma campaign.

The insolent, threatening enemy had retreated far across the mountain barrier.  For the while he was out of reach of striking or being struck.  The long-delayed commissary-wagons had come up, and there was an abundance to eat.  The weather was delightful, the forests green, shady and inviting, the scenery picturesque and inspiring, and every day brought news of glorious Union victories, over which the cannon boomed in joyful salutes and the men cheered themselves hoarse.  Grant had taken Vicksburg, with 25,000 prisoners, and chased Joe Johnston out of sight and knowledge.  Prentiss had bloodily repulsed Sterling Price at Helena.  Banks had captured Port Hudson, with 6,000 prisoners.  The Mississippi River at last “flowed unvexed to the sea.”  Meade had won a great victory at Gettysburg, and Lee’s beaten army was in rapid retreat to Virginia.  “The blasted old Southern Confederacy is certainly havin’ its underpinnin’ knocked out, its j’ints cracked, and its roof caved in,” remarked Si, as the two boys lay under the kindly shade of a low-growing jackoak, lazily smoked their pipes, and gazed contentedly out over the far-spreading camps, in which no man was doing anything more laborious than gathering a little wood to boil his evening coffee with. “’Tain’t fit to store brick-bats in now.  By-and-by we’ll go out and hunt up old Bragg and give him a good punch, and the whole crazy shebang ’ll come down with a crash.”

“I only wish old Bragg wasn’t of sich a retirin’ nature,” lazily commented Shorty.  “The shade o’ this tree is good enough for me.  I don’t want to ever leave it.  Why couldn’t he’ve waited for me, and we could’ve had it out here, coolly and pleasantly, and settled which was the best man!  The thing’ d bin over, and each feller could’ve gone about his business.”

Both relapsed into silence as each fell into day dreams the one about a buxom, rosy-cheeked little maiden in the Valley of the Wabash; the other of one in far-off Wisconsin, whom he had never seen, but whom he mentally endowed with all the virtues and charms that his warmest imagination could invest a woman.  Neither could see a woman without thinking how inferior she was in looks, words or acts to those whose images they carried in their hearts, and she was sure to suffer greatly by the comparison.

Such is the divinely transforming quality of love.

Each of the boys had taken the first opportunity, after getting enough to eat, a shelter prepared, and his clothes in shape and a tolerable rest, to write a long letter to the object of his affections.  Shorty’s letter was not long on paper, but in the time it took him to write it.  He felt that he was making some progress with the fair maid of Bad Ax, and this made him the more deeply anxious that no misstep should thwart the progress of love’s young dream.

Letter-writing presented unusual difficulties to Shorty.  His training in the noble art of penmanship had stopped short long before his sinewy fingers had acquired much knack at forming the letters.  Spelling and he had a permanent disagreement early in life, and he was scarcely on speaking terms with grammar.  He had never any trouble conveying his thoughts by means of speech.  People had very little difficulty in understanding what he meant when he talked, but this was quite different from getting his thoughts down in plain black and white for the reading of a strange young woman whom he was desperately anxious to please, and desperately afraid of offending.  He labored over many sheets of paper before he got a letter that seemed only fairly satisfactory.  One he had rejected because of a big blot on it; second, because he thought he had expressed himself too strongly; a third, because of an erasure and unseemly correction; a fourth, because of some newborn suspicions about the grammar and spelling, and so on.  He thought, after he had carefully gathered up all his failures and burned them, together with a number of envelopes he had wrecked in his labor to direct one to Miss Lucinda Briggs, Bad Ax, Wis., sufficiently neatly to satisfy his fastidious taste.

He carefully folded his letter, creasing it with a very stalwart thumb-nail, sealed it, gave it a long inspection, as he thought how much it was carrying, and how far, and took it up to the Chaplain’s tent to be mailed.

Later in the afternoon a hilarious group was gathered under a large cottonwood.  It was made up of teamsters, Quartermaster’s men, and other bobtail of the camp, with the officers’ servants forming the dark fringe of an outer circle.  Groundhog was the presiding spirit.  By means best known to himself he had become possessed of a jug of Commissary whisky, and was dispensing it to his auditors in guarded drams to highten their appreciation of his wit and humor.  He had come across one of the nearly-completed letters which Shorty had thrown aside and failed to find when he burned the rest.  Groundhog was now reading this aloud, accompanied by running comments, to the great amusement of his auditors, who felt that, drinking his whisky, and expecting more, they were bound to laugh uproariously at anything he said was funny.

“Shorty, that lanky, two-fisted chump of Co.  Q, who thinks hisself a bigger man than Gineral Rosecrans,” Groundhog explained, “has writ a letter to a gal away off somewhere up North.  How in the kingdom he ever come to git acquainted with her or any respectable woman ’s more’n I kin tell.  But he’s got cheek enough for anything.  It’s sartin, though, that she’s never saw him, and don’t know nothin’ about him, or she’d never let him write to her.  Of course, he’s as ignorant as a mule.  He skeercely got beyant pot-hooks when he wuz tryin’ to larn writin’, an’ he spells like a man with a wooden leg.  Look here: 

“‘Mi Dere Frend.’  Now, everybody knows that the way to spell dear is d-e-e-r.  Then he goes on: 

“’I taik mi pen in hand to inform u that Ime well, tho I’ve lost about 15 pounds, and hoap that u air injoyin’ the same blessin.”

“Think o’ the vulgarity o’ a man writin’ to a young lady ’bout his losin’ flesh.  If a man should write sich a thing to my sister I’d hunt him up and wollop the life outen him.  Then he goes on: 

“’I aint built to spare much meat, and the loss of 15 pounds leaves fallow lots in mi cloze.  But it will grow it all back on me agin mitey quick, as soon as we kin hav another protracted meetin’ with the Commissary Department.’

“Did you ever hear sich vulgarity?” Groundhog groaned.  “Now hear him brag and use langwidge unfit for any lady to see: 

“’We’ve jest went throo the gosh-almightiest campane that enny army ever done.  It wuz rane and mud 48 ours outen the 24, with thunder and litenin’ on the side.  We got wettern Faro’s hosts done chasin’ the Jews throo 50 foot of Red See.  But we diddent stop for that till we’d hussled old Bragg outen his works, and started him on the keen jump for Chattynoogy, to put the Cumberland Mountings betwixt us and him.’

“Think o’ the conceit o’ the feller.  Wants to make that gal believe that he druv off Bragg a’most single-handed, and intends to foller him up and kick him some more.  Sich gall.  Sich fellers hurts us in the opinion o’ the people at home.  They make ’em think we’re all a set o’ blowhards.  But this aint nothin’ to what comes next.  He tries to honeyfugle the gal, and he’s as clumsy ‘bout it as a brown b’ar robbin’ a bee-hive.  Listen: 

“’mi dere frend, I can’t tell you how happy yore letters maik me.  I’ve got so I look for the male a good dele more angshioussly than for the grub wagon.’

“Think o’ a man sayin’ grub to a lady,” said Groundhog, in a tone of deep disgust.  “Awful coarse.  A gentleman allers says ‘peck,’ or ‘hash,’ or Vittels,’ when he’s speakin’ to a lady, or before ladies.  I licked a man onct for sayin’ ‘gizzard-linen’ before my mother, and gizzard-linin’ aint half as coarse as grub.  But he gits softer’n mush as he goes on.  Listen: 

“’I rede every wun of ’em over till they’re cleane wore out, and then I save the pieces, bekaze they cum from u.  I rede them whenever Ime alone, and it seems to me that its yeres before another one comes.  If I cood make anybody feel as good by ritin’ to ’em as u kin me Ide rite ’em every day.’

“Thar’s some more of his ignorant spellin’,” said Groundhog.  “Everybody but a blamed fool knows the way to spell write is w-r-i-g-h-t.  I learnt that much before I wuz knee-high to a grasshopper.  But let me continner: 

“’I think Bad Ax, Wisconsin, must be the nicest plais in the world, bekaze u live there.  I woodent want to live anywhair else, and Ime cummin up thar just as soon as the war is over to settle.  I think of u every our in the day, and-’

“He thinks of her every hour.  The idée,” said Groundhog, with deep scorn, “that sich a galoot as Shorty thinks of anything more’n a minute, except triple-X, all-wool, indigo-dyed cussedness that he kin work off on some other feller and hurt him, that he don’t think’s as smart as he is.  Think o’ him gushin’ out all this soft-solder to fool some poor girl.”

“You infernal liar, you, give me that letter,” shouted Si, bolting into the circle and making a clutch at the sheet.  “I’ll pound your onery head off en you.”

Si had come up unnoticed, and listened for a few minutes to Groundhog’s tirade before he discovered that his partner was its object.  Then he sprang at the teamster, struck him with one hand, and snatched at the letter with the other.  The bystanders instinctively sided with the teamster, and Si became the center of a maelstrom of kicks and blows, when Shorty, seeing his partner’s predicament, bolted down the hill and began knocking down every body in reach until he cleared a way to Si’s side.  By this time the attention of the Sergeant of the Guard was attracted, and he brought an energetic gun-barrel to the task of restoring the reign of law and order.

“How in thunder’d you come to git into a fracas with that herd o’ mavericks, Si?” asked Shorty, in a tone of rebuke, as the Sergeant was rounding up the crowd and trying to get at who was to blame.  “Couldn’t you find somebody on your own level to fight, without startin’ a fuss with a passel o’ low-down, rust-eaten roustabouts?  What’s got into you?  Bin livin’ so high lately that you had to have a fight to work off your fractiousness?  I’m surprised at you.”

“Groundhog’ d got hold of a letter o’ your’n to your girl up in Wisconsin,” gasped Si, “and was readin’ it to the crowd.  Here’s a piece of it.”

Shorty glanced at the fragment of torn paper in Si’s hand, and a deep blush suffused his sun-browned cheek.  Then he gave a howl and made a rush for Groundhog.

“Here, let that man alone, or I’ll make you,” shouted the Sergeant of the Guard.

“Sergeant,” said Si, “that rat-faced teamster had got hold of a letter to his girl, and was reading it to this gang o’ camp offal.”

“O,” said the Sergeant, in a changed tone; “hope he’ll baste the life out of him.”  And he jumped in before a crowd that was showing some disposition to go to Groundhog’s assistance, sharply ordered them to about-face, and drove them off before him.

“Here, Sergeant,” shouted the Officer of the Guard, who came running up; “what are you fooling around with these fellows for?  They’re not doing any thing.  Don’t you see that man’s killing that team ster?”

“Teamster had got hold of a letter to his girl,” explained the Sergeant, “and was reading it to these whelps.”

“O,” said the Officer of the Guard in a different tone.  “Run these rascals down there in front of the Quartermaster’s and set them to work digging those stumps out.  Keep them at it till midnight, without anything to eat.  I’ll teach them to raise disturbances in camp.”