AN INCIDENT OF SPOTTSYVANIA.–

During the lull in the strife, I rode back to the Second corps’ hospitals to see the wounded.

“How goes it, boys?” was the question.

“All right,” said one.

“Pretty rough,” said another.

“They niver will get through the Second corps,” said a Hibernian.

The lull had become a storm. How fearfully rolled the musketry! It is utterly useless to attempt a description or comparison. It was volley after volley, surge after surge, roll after roll.

Maurice Collins, of the Twelfth Massachusetts, was brought in with an ugly wound through his shoulder. He was a Catholic, and the priest was showing him the crucifix.

“Will it be mortal?” he asked.

“Perhaps not, if you will lie still and keep quiet; but you may have to lose your arm.”

“Well, I am willing to give my arm to my country,” was the reply of one, who, though born in the ever green isle, while loving the harp and shamrock, adores the stars and stripes of his adopted country.

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