There are a few of the older boys and girls still remaining on the green side of the sod who still remember all old-fashioned breakfast when mackerel was a possibility and not, as now, a forbidden luxury.

I was very fond of mackerel and was then entering into my second year without so much as a smell of them. On this particular morning, as I passed through the camp of the Tenth Kentucky regiment, I caught a whiff of my favorite dish. I was not long in locating the real thing, for the odor was so appetizing that I could follow the scent like a hungry hound. The soldier who was cooking it told me that they could be obtained from their sutler. I bought two. Twenty-five cents each was a stiff price, but what did that matter? I was crazed with a homesick appetite, and to me they were worth their weight in silver.

I wended my way to camp. I feasted my eyes upon my precious mackerel: and it was fortunate for me that I did, for except in anticipation this was all the feast I had.

It happened in this way: When I arrived in camp an emergency detail was being made and the lot fell to me. I had scarcely time to grab my gun and equipment. I could not carry my precious little fishes with me. A fire in the front was not allowed. My only alternative was to leave them with someone whom I could trust. But who could I trust in that hungry crowd? Suddenly, I remembered that one Moses Holsapple was of the Dunkard faith. Surely I could trust him. So I left them with Moses and hastened to join the detail. Two hours on duty and four hours off was a soldiers allotted share.

During those two hours on duty my thoughts were of my mackerel. I even recalled from Sunday school days the miracle of the two fishes with regret that the power of increase or multiplying was not delegated to me on this one occasion. When my last relief from duty came and I lay down to sleep I dreamed of cooking my fish. In my dreams they had greatly increased in size. The odor that arose filled the air with a delicious fragrance and had attracted hundreds of hungry soldiers who were standing by, holding out their plates to receive their share. But for some unaccountable reason my fish would not cook done, kept increasing in size until they threatened to fill the whole universe.

Suddenly, there was an explosion. I opened my eyes, expecting to see the air filled with fragments of mackerel, but instead my eyes met those of the grinning imp of a soldier who still stood over me holding a rubber blanket with which he had smote me. The sun was shining, the pickets were relieved to return to camp.

As I reached my quarters I was greeted with congratulations on every side. I was puzzled. Could it be possible that I had been promoted? I put away my gun and equipment and began to rummage for my precious little mackerel, but to no avail. I rushed from the tent and hailed Moses, asking very emphatically where my mackerels were.

"Why," said Mose as meekly and as coolly as it would have been possible for Moses of old to have answered, "Alf Mehan came in from the picket, and told me that you was dead, and would never need any more mackerel in this world, so he and I ate them."

I was sorely disappointed and to say angry would be mild indeed, for I was furious, and would have licked the whole gang if I had been able. I never again trusted my Dunkard friend with anything of value.

The Rev. John G. Baxter, D. D. of the Southern Indiana conference of the M. E. church, was a member of Company C, a tent and mess mate of mine.

A better soldier or jollier comrade never lived. But John had faults as well as the rest of us, for he was not a Methodist then. His peculiar methods of obtaining something good to eat not giving him a title to the name.

One of Baxter's misfortunes was a ravenous appetite. This in time of plenty was not a serious handicap, but in time of famine was not only annoying to himself, but often proved disastrous to others, as the sequel will show. As long as the mess pooled their rations he fared well, for Uncle Sam was a liberal provider, and but a few soldiers could eat more than a full ration. But the time came when they were issued separately, and in three days allowance. Baxter invariably ate all his the first day, then on the second day he would be hungry, and on the third day still hungrier.

Now, it so happened that he was not the only great man of the future in that part of the army, for Chief Justice Harlan, of the United States supreme court, was colonel of the Tenth Kentucky regiment and his headquarters were not even 100 yards from our camp. The colonel's cook slept in the cook tent, and was supposed to watch over his master's mess chest. Our Jim Polk was on intimate terms with the colonel's darkey, and as his rations had been cut by the change, he was also on the verge of starvation, and readily entered into a conspiracy with Baxter to loot the well-supplied larder of the future chief justice. Jim entertained the colonel's darkey while Baxter did the foraging.

That night mess No. 2 had a feast of fat things. The hams especially were large and juicy. We never knew what the colonel said when his loss was discovered, but he was a model Christian gentleman, never known to use a profane nor unchaste word, we presumed that he bore his loss with Christian fortitude.

I have often wondered what the illustrious chief justice would say to John; should it ever occur that his reverence would be brought before that high tribunal and the whole truth should be made known.

One morning when we drew our three days rations my Dunkard comrade carried the sugar, which was placed in two large camp kettles. One was filled to the brim, but the other was only half filled.

Now, the reputation of our company for morality was such that we were not watched so closely as some others, besides the chief clerk in the commissary was J. M. Bradstreet, at present a commission merchant of this city, a member of our company and mess. Of course, John had an abiding trust in the boys, and they in turn held him in like esteem.

When Mose came to the barrel of whiskey that stood headless by the way, he could not resist the temptation, and dipped the partially filled kettle of sugar therein, thus securing about two gallons of commissary lightening, which at the prevailing price was worth about $25. No one criticized his financial judgment in that transaction. Neither did anyone complain because the sugar had been adulterated.

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