distinctly recall that image of a man in the sky, its head erect, its feet close together, its hands—­I do not see its hands.  All at once, with astonishing suddenness and rapidity, it turns clear over and pitches downward.  There is another cry from the crowd, which has rushed instinctively forward.  The man has become merely a whirling object, mostly legs.  Then there is an indescribable sound—­ the sound of an impact that shakes the earth, and these men, familiar with death in its most awful aspects, turn sick.  Many walk unsteadily away from the spot; others support themselves against the trunks of trees or sit at the roots.  Death has taken an unfair advantage; he has struck with an unfamiliar weapon; he has executed a new and disquieting stratagem.  We did not know that he had so ghastly resources, possibilities of terror so dismal.

Thurston’s body lay on its back.  One leg, bent beneath, was broken above the knee and the bone driven into the earth.  The abdomen had burst; the bowels protruded.  The neck was broken.

The arms were folded tightly across the breast.

THE MOCKING-BIRD

The time, a pleasant Sunday afternoon in the early autumn of 1861.  The place, a forest’s heart in the mountain region of southwestern Virginia.  Private Grayrock of the Federal Army is discovered seated comfortably at the root of a great pine tree, against which he leans, his legs extended straight along the ground, his rifle lying across his thighs, his hands (clasped in order that they may not fall away to his sides) resting upon the barrel of the weapon.  The contact of the back of his head with the tree has pushed his cap downward over his eyes, almost concealing them; one seeing him would say that he slept.

Private Grayrock did not sleep; to have done so would have imperiled the interests of the United States, for he was a long way outside the lines and subject to capture or death at the hands of the enemy.  Moreover, he was in a frame of mind unfavorable to repose.  The cause of his perturbation of spirit was this:  during the previous night he had served on the picket-guard, and had been posted as a sentinel in this very forest.  The night was clear, though moonless, but in the gloom of the wood the darkness was deep.  Grayrock’s post was at a considerable distance from those to right and left, for the pickets had been thrown out a needless distance from the camp, making the line too long for the force detailed to occupy it.  The war was young, and military camps entertained the error that while sleeping they were better protected by thin lines a long way out toward the enemy than by thicker ones close in.  And surely they needed as long notice as possible of an enemy’s approach, for they were at that time addicted to the practice of undressing—­than which nothing could be more unsoldierly.  On the morning of the memorable 6th of April, at Shiloh, many of Grant’s men when spitted on Confederate bayonets were as naked as civilians; but it should be allowed that this was not because of any defect in their picket line.  Their error was of another sort:  they had no pickets.  This is perhaps a vain digression.  I should not care to undertake to interest the reader in the fate of an army; what we have here to consider is that of Private Grayrock.