We tried cutting them up with a hatchet, but they were so
slick and tough the hatchet would not cut them. Well, we cooked them,
and buttered them, and salted them, and peppered them, and battered them.
They looked good, and smelt good, and tasted good; at least the fixings
we put on them did, and we ate the mussels. I went to sleep that night.
I dreamed that my stomach was four grindstones, and that they turned in
four directions, according to the four corners of the earth. I awoke
to hear four men yell out, "O, save, O, save me from eating any more
mussels!"
"POOR" BERRY MORGAN
One of those sad, unexpected affairs, that remind the living that even in
life we are in the midst of death, happened at Shelbyville. Our regiment
had been out to the front, on duty, and was returning to camp. It was
nearly dark, and we saw a black wind cloud rising. The lightning's flash
and the deep muttering thunders warned us to seek shelter as speedily as
possible. Some of us ran in under the old depot shed, and soon the storm
struck us. It was a tornado that made a track through the woods beyond
Shelbyville, and right through the town, and we could follow its course
for miles where it had blown down the timber, twisting and piling it in
every shape.
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