One of the most laughable incidents that the writer remembers in connection with the memorable siege of Chattanooga, occurred one day, while the Confederates were shelling us from the mountain. We had been having it pretty hot, which brought us to our pits for safety, when we seized the occasion of a momentary lull to procure some hot coffee. A negro cook of one of the officers was busy preparing some in an old-fashioned coffee-pot, when the Confederates, having got the range of our little group, began to drop something among us harder than ripe gooseberries. Sambo began to get very nervous. He said: "It am berry warm heah, massa; I specks a little way back better." But a stern "Go on with your duty" was the only answer he got. Suddenly a piece of a shell came whizzing along, and struck the coffee-pot, smashing it, and almost blinding the negro with the scalding hot liquid. With a yell of fright and pain, he started off like a deer, heedless of where he was running to. As luck would have it, a fussy, pompous, portly Captain of a Regiment near by us, was approaching us to order us to our rifle-pits, so as to induce the enemy to cease firing. He did not see Sambo, neither did Sambo see him. With head down and arms extended, the terror-stricken darkey butted the pursy officer squarely in the stomach with the force of a battering ram, bowling him over like a tenpin, and rolled over him. Poor Sambo was set upon by the irate Captain, and thinking one of the rebels had got him, kept bellowing out for help, while he returned the Captain's kicks and cuffs with interest. We managed to get the darkey away, but the Captain believed it was a put-up job of the boys.

There was not an hour in which a portion of the Army was not under fire from the enemy. The continuous roar of musketry and boom of cannon, far and near, became so monotonous to us that they no longer attracted our attention, unless they came to our immediate front, and we became engaged. We cooked our meals and ate them, wrote letters to loved ones at home, washed and mended our clothing, hunted for "graybacks" and found them along the seams of our shirts, polished our guns, built breastworks and slept under this ceaseless "zip" of the bullet and "screech" of the shell.

After this, the Union and Confederate lines of intrenchment became very near each other. In some places, they were not over thirty yards apart. The lines of our Brigade were so close to the enemy, that no one on either side could show his head above the works without getting shot. For a little diversion we would sometimes put our cap or hat on a bayonet, and hold it above the works, when it would be pierced by a bullet in an instant. We could advance only by night.

The following poem the writer of this history found on the dead body of a Confederate soldier killed in this battle, who, doubtless, was its author, whose cheerful life went out in darkness, no doubt "fighting bravely" by "Fate's decree:"

Soldier's Supper and Chit-chat

What shall we have for supper?
Hard tack and slice of meat!
And upon this rusty hoe
We'll bake a corn-cake sweet.
While meat and meal are cooking
We'll wash our dishes few,
Namely---a broken case-knife,
Tin plates---numbering two.

Now, draw some rye(o) coffee
In yonder old canteen,
From which we'll drink, one by one,
Until the dregs we drain.
Come, roll up the lesser log,
Hard by the larger one,
One will serve for table,
The other to sit upon.

Supper being over, then
Push back the smaller log,
Pass round the muddy water,
Be sure to hand no grog.
Now, Tommy, make down the bed,
We mean, the camp-worn blanket,
Place not a rock at the head,
For cartridge-boxes "rank it."

But ere to Morpheus we yield
Our Confed'rate selves up,
Let us light our corn-cob pipes
And take a social smoke.
I wonder if my father,
Sister, or my mother,
Dreams sadly of me just now
Or of my captive brother.

And Belle, my fairy Belle,
If she watch our lone bright star
And think of absent Lionel,
As he bears the toils of war;
If she visit the bowers
When twilight shades draw near,
Mindful of the halcyon hours
We've spent together there.

And, Will, where do you suspect
Fair Annie is tonight?
Sleeping sweet, or dancing gay
At ball or party bright?
Where'er she is, I trust, Jule,
She's true to me as ever,
And hope when cruel war is o'er
We'll meet to part---never.

Cease this talk for the nonce, boys,
Each get his trusty gun,
Place it near by at once, boys,
Then wait to-morrow's sun!
For then we go forth in battle,
And if 'tis Fate's decree,
We'll die---fighting bravely---
For Right and Liberty.

Bluffton, S.C., July, 1864.----"Lionel"

The above poem, written by the hand of "Lionel" and stained with his blood, is yet in the possession of the writer of this history.