I said that practical joking had not then gone out of fashion.  It had not, at least, in the army; though possibly in the more serious life of the civilian it had no place except in the form of tarring and feathering an occasional “copperhead.”  You all know, I suppose, what a “copperhead” was, so I will go directly at my story without introductory remark, as is my way.

It was a few days before the battle of Nashville.  The enemy had driven us up out of northern Georgia and Alabama.  At Nashville we had turned at bay and fortified, while old Pap Thomas, our commander, hurried down reinforcements and supplies from Louisville.  Meantime Hood, the Confederate commander, had partly invested us and lay close enough to have tossed shells into the heart of the town.  As a rule he abstained—­he was afraid of killing the families of his own soldiers, I suppose, a great many of whom had lived there.  I sometimes wondered what were the feelings of those fellows, gazing over our heads at their own dwellings, where their wives and children or their aged parents were perhaps suffering for the necessaries of life, and certainly (so their reasoning would run) cowering under the tyranny and power of the barbarous Yankees.

To begin, then, at the beginning, I was serving at that time on the staff of a division commander whose name I shall not disclose, for I am relating facts, and the person upon whom they bear hardest may have surviving relatives who would not care to have him traced.  Our headquarters were in a large dwelling which stood just behind our line of works.  This had been hastily abandoned by the civilian occupants, who had left everything pretty much as it was—­had no place to store it, probably, and trusted that Heaven would preserve it from Federal cupidity and Confederate artillery.  With regard to the latter we were as solicitous as they.

Rummaging about in some of the chambers and closets one evening, some of us found an abundant supply of lady-gear—­gowns, shawls, bonnets, hats, petticoats and the Lord knows what; I could not at that time have named the half of it.  The sight of all this pretty plunder inspired one of us with what he was pleased to call an “idea,” which, when submitted to the other scamps and scapegraces of the staff, met with instant and enthusiastic approval.  We proceeded at once to act upon it for the undoing of one of our comrades.

Our selected victim was an aide, Lieutenant Haberton, so to call him.  He was a good soldier—­as gallant a chap as ever wore spurs; but he had an intolerable weakness:  he was a lady-killer, and like most of his class, even in those days, eager that all should know it.  He never tired of relating his amatory exploits, and I need not say how dismal that kind of narrative is to all but the narrator.  It would be dismal even if sprightly and vivacious, for all men are rivals in woman’s favor, and to relate your successes to another man is to rouse in him a