One of the most insidious foes of the American soldier was 'nostalgia,' or home sickness. One would naturally suppose that this would only come to him who had left wife and little ones in a home that had always been an ideal one of sunshine and love; where the husband and father had always found his greatest joy in their welfare and happiness, or of the boys or young men who had likewise been surrounded by very endearing influence that a mother's love, a sister's pure influence and a father's provident care had made - a shire of worship to which his heart would naturally return in fond memory, especially during the lone watch on picket, whenever the chirp of a cricket, or the call of a katy-did startled him and caused him to-

'Gather his gun close up to his heart,

As if to keep back the heart's swelling.'

But such was not the case. The dread disease came to all. They very men who had neglected their families and wasted their earnings in drink and riotous living were often the first to succumb. Perhaps a guilty conscience goaded them to repentance.

I knew of one case where a boy who had no recollection of a mother or of any home influences, whose only home had been a canal boat in the open season and a livery stable in winter; even this poor boy talked of nothing else than of going home, until death kindly came and satisfied his desire.

I recall another case where a soldier became desperately homesick just by one sniff of that delicate fragrance that only comes from woodland when the first frosts of October have begun to tint the leaves with purple and gold. We were returning from picket through a ravine with woods on either side. A gust of wind came from the hillside, laden with that peculiar odor so dear to every child of nature.

"That smells like papaw time in Ohio," said a farmer boy, "and I'd just give three months of my three years' enlistment for a good mess."

The next morning that boy applied to his captain for a pass to go after papaws.

"Why, Bill," said the captain, "there are no papaws in this country."

"Yes there is," said Bill. "Give me a pass and I'll bet you $10 I'll find some before I come back."

When Bill's name was called he did not answer "Here"." Four days later the captain received the following letter:

'Holden Cross Roads, Ohio

October 15, 1861

"Dear Captain-I took your word for it that there were no papaws in Kentucky, so I did not look for them there, but I knew there were plenty in Ohio and I was bound to have them if I had to come to Ohio to get them. Well, captain, I got them and I am satisfied, and if you will hold my job for me, I will be back in a few days and fill my contract.

Yours truly,

Wm. M. Mc------"

Bill returned, according to promise, and gave Uncle Sam good service for three years.

The Confederate soldier, when leaving his home, carried with him the same tender lover for-

'The orchard, the meadow, the deep tangled wildwood;

And every love spot which (his) infancy knew"

Whether the jacket was blue or gray, buttoned up beneath its meshes of either cotton or wool was an American heart that beat the same tattoo- 'Home, Sweet Home.'

I was once told by a Confederate soldier, Thomas M. Hill, of Chattanooga, Tenn., that in his brigade there was a regiment of Kentucky volunteers whose band would invariably wind up their evening concert with 'My Old Kentucky Home.'

It was noticed that after these concerts, while the other soldiers would retire when taps was sounded, the Kentuckians would gather in knots and talk of home until late in the night, and when the roll was called in the morning many were missing. The desertions became so frequent that the fine Kentucky regiment was fast dwindling away. The colonel was ordered to headquarters.

"Colonel, you have many desertions." said the general.

"Yes, general, we have a great many," he replied.

"You will have to order your band to cease playing 'My Old Kentucky Home," said the general, "or your whole d--n regiment will be there in less than a month."

Our first sergeant had left a wife at home and rumors said that life had not been all sunshine in their home. But as both of them had been reserved in communicating to the outside world, even in that small village little of the truth was known, and the sharp-nosed ones were puzzled. One fact only was known - that they were childless and perfect masters of their own secrets. After nearly a years service our sergeant became despondent, refused food and took a position on a stump in front of the tent, where he would remain the entire night, only retiring to the tent when the sun made the place intenantable. One morning, after this had continued for some time, he called to me and said:

Benedict, will you do me a favor?"

"Why, yes, sergeant," I replied, "anything I can do for your comfort will be done gladly."

"Take this then," said he, handing me a silver half dollar. "Go to Jeff DeBolt and give him this and tell him to give me a beef liver."

When I returned with a large liver he smiled and said;

"Bully for you, Benedict. Now we will have a feast. I suppose you can eat liver nicely fried, can't you?"

"Yes," said I, "I am very fond of it."

"Well, then, get a pan and fry it nice and brown. But first let's do things right while we are at it. Let me hold it until you go to Sam Deanins (the hospital cook) and get a tincup of flour. Tell him it's for me; that I am sick and want it to roll some liver in it."

I went with some misgivings, wondering the while whether or not this was not another mackerel game. But when I returned with the flour, he was still holding the liver. "Ah!" thought I, "I have done the sergeant an awful injustice by judging him by those other rogues. He is a man, every inch of him."

I started a fire and got two pans so I could hurry the job, for my own mouth was watering for liver. In the meantime he procured a cracker box and seating himself on one end, sliced the liver on the other and rolled it in flour.

"Now," said he, "fry these thin slices first. They will cook quicker, and I will eat mine while you fry it, for it is never good if it gets cold."

I fried liver and the sergeant ate. As son as a piece was browned it was on his fork and I imagined I could hear the hot stuff sizzle as he gulped it down. Finally, the last panful was on the fire. I bean to feel uneasy for there did not seem to be any let-up, and I could tell by the length of time it took each piece to go down that the cavity was far from being filled, for each swallow went 'chung' just like dropping pebbles in a cray-fish's hole, or into a jug half filled with water.

Now the last lot was beginning to brown. I wanted to speak, but modesty prevented. I delayed a little and the delay was fatal, for with a quick motion he grabbed the pan from the fire and before I could say 'Jack Robinson' the contents was on his tin plate and fast disappearing.

"Where in thunder does mine come in?" I said in sheer desperation.

"Yours," said he in amazement. "Didn't you save any for yourself?"

What I said to the sergeant on that occasion I could not repeat at this time with a clean conscience, neither would it be appropriate.

"Why, Benedict," said the sergeant, without showing the least particle of anger, "I was hungry; most all-fired hungry But now I feel like a new man, and am awful sorry that you got left, but I'll tell you what to do; there's some flour left, make yourself some gravy."

The next morning the second sergeant called the roll. The first sergeant had taken a 'French leave', and was never seen with the company again. He was homesick and the weary hours he spent on that stump were hours of battling between right and wrong, between honor and dis-honor, and when a final decision was made his appetite returned. He had passed through a terrible ordeal. It was death to stay. It was a decision between life and death.

The records of the company say: 'Reduced to ranks. Promoted to first lieutenant in marine brigade.' The facts were these; After a few days at home he determined to return and right the wrong.

By the influence of friends he received a promotion; served to the close of the war, and only a few of his own command ever knew the truth.

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