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EXPERIENCE OF 90TH BOYS IN SOUTHERN PRISONS.
We were captured at the battle of Chickamauga, Ga., September 20th, 1863, and were sent to Richmond, Va. When we got to Atlanta, Ga., we were marched from the railroad through the streets of the city to the stockade and kept there over night. As we were being marched through the streets, we were treated with contempt and insult by some of the citizens. In retalliation, we commenced singing: "Old John Brown," with the chorus: "and we will hang Jeff. Davis on a sour apple tree, as we go marching along." This enraged the Rebs so, that they threatened to shoot us, if we did not stop our singing. So we were compelled to be silent.

As we passed into the stockade we were relieved of our blankets, canteens and such other articles as the Confederate officers saw fit to take. We were taken out of the stockade the next day and sent on to Richmond, Va. We arrived at Richmond about the 1st of October, and were put in Libby prison, where we remained until the latter part of November, when we were sent to Danville, Va., where we were kept in tobacco warehouses.

While we were in Richmond, we learned that there was a quantity of flour, sugar and salt stored in the basement story of the building we occupied, and as our rations were short, we concluded to get some of these articles. We cut a hole through the floor, and helped ourselves to the sugar and salt. The flour we could not use. There was a notice of this in the Richmond papers, and they stated that we had taken between 7,000 and 8,000 pounds of sugar before the "Yankees" were detected. For our surprise we were not punished for this "sweetnees."

We remained at Danville, Ga., until about the middle of May, 1864, and were then sent to Andersonville, Ga. During the winter at Danville, we had no fire in the building to keep us comfortable, and we suffered very much from the effects of the cold. Our blankets had been taken from us, and the bare floor was our bed.

During the month of December, our government sent us blankets and clothing, which we received the latter part of the month, and this added greatly to our comfort.

During the month of February, 1864, the small-pox broke out amongst us, and quite a number of our boys were carried off by this loathsome disease.
During this month, some of us decided to try to make our escape by tunneling out. We got into a small cellar on the east side of the building in which we were confined, and sunk a hole down about three feet, and then started our tunnel, using a butcher-knife and a bayonet with which to dig, and a half of a canteen for a shovel. We had a small box to use in taking the dirt out of the tunnel and depositing it in the cellar. We had been working about six weeks on our tunnel, and had it almost completed, when, by some means we were detected in our work, and our plans were thwarted, and then we were more closely guarded than we had been heretofore.

We arrived at Andersonville, Ga., about the 20th of May, and found, to our sorrow, that we had come from "bad to worse." The prison was an open stockade, without any shelter, or provision made for our comfort. Language fails us, to properly describe the wretchedness and suffering of that horrible prison pen. Starvation, suffering and death were the ruling features of Andersonville prison.

We had some hard characters among us who went to robbing their fellow prisoners of whatever valuables they might possess. A vigilance committee was organized, and a number of arrests were made, and those arrested were tried by a jury of 12 of our own men. Six of the men who had been arrested were found guilty of grave offenses, and were sentenced to ball and chain. The rebel authorities refused to keep them separate from the rest of the prisoners, and gave the committee their choice, to either execute them, or to have them turned loose amongst us. The committee decided to execute them, and on the 11th day of July, 1864, they were hanged inside of the stockade. When the drop fell, one of the ropes broke, and the man fell to the ground, but he was immediately taken back upon the scaffold, the rope readjusted and he was swung off. This man had assumed the name of "Mosby," and was a hard character. After this execution, robbing was seldom heard of among the prisoners. It was about this time in July that the famous "Providence Spring" broke out in the prison pen, and it was certainly a God send to us, and added greatly to our comfort. On the 3rd of July, three of us organized a prayer meeting in the stockade. Sergt. James M. McCollem, of Newcomerstown, Tuscarawas Co. O.; Corp. W. C. Rose, of Granville, O., and the writer of this, were the three who organized this meeting, and it was kept up daily as long as we remained there. And many hearts were comforted by these devotional services. There were about 35,000 of us confined in Andersonville prison at one time.

During the month of August the death rate was fearful, and among the number that died were two of the boys of Co. B, of the 90th O. V. I., namely: Mark Tinley and Joseph Wyatt. Both died from the effects of scurvy.

About the 1st of September they commenced sending the prisoners away from Andersonville, and on the 9th of September, 1864, we were taken out of Andersonville and sent to Charleston, S.C., and at this place we received better treatment than any place we had been. We remained here but a few days, and were then taken to Florence, S.C., and imprisoned in a stockade there. This was a small prison, only about 10,000 of us there, but our treatment was the worst that we had met with any place we had been. It was an open stockade, and our rations were issued to us in a raw state, and they failed to furnish us with any cooking utensils with which to cook what little they gave us to eat. They gave us only one cord of wood to every 1,000 men per day, with which to do our cooking, and it is needless to say that it was necessary for us to use the wood very economically. We had to get our wood, and carry it to the prison gate. When the men were taken out to get wood, they were required to make oath that they would not attempt to escape while they were out. As it was a relief to get outside the stockade, we went out to get wood, and were put in charge of 100 wood carriers. There were five wood squads, but some of them contained considerably less than 100 men. One day two of our men decided to leave, and as we did not report that they had left, the Rebel authorities took those in charge of the different wood squads, and put them in the dungeon, where we were kept two days and two nights. The dungeon was wet and cold, and we suffered very much while we were there. When we were taken out of the dungeon, we were turned back into the stockade.

After this exposure, the writer's health began to decline, and finally we became helpless, and for some six or seven days were unconscious most of the time. Finally we rallied, and before we were able to walk alone we were brought to our lines at Wilmington, S.C., at which place we arrived on the 2nd day of March, 1865, and on the 10th of March we arrived at Annapolis, Md., and were taken into the hospital on the Naval Academy grounds, a mere skeleton, with but three articles of clothing-a blouse, pants and shoes. We gradually recovered, and are still among the living at this date, February 5, 1902.

After we returned home, we learned that the captain of our company had ordered our name to be entered on the company roll with the remark-"reduced to ranks," and gave as a reason for doing so, that he did not consider it fair for another man to perform the duty of a 1st Sergeant, and the man in prison receive the pay. We reported the matter to the authorities at Washington, D.C. An investigation was made, and the result was, that we received pay as 1st Sergeant for the entire time, and now hold a certificate, with the statement, that "this man's rank is 1st Sergeant."
J. G. MILLER,
CO. B, 90th O. V. I.

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THREE YEARS IN DIXIE
BY HIRAM S. BROWN, CO. E.
CROOKS, KY.

I composed the following about the close of the war. I used to sing it, and then after a few years I held the "Little Browns" on my knee and sang it to them. I do not claim to be a Longfellow nor a Tennyson, but I guess it'll do.

It was in the month of August,
In eighteen sixty-two,
When I, with many others,
Bade our friends adieu.
We left the city of Circleville
Enroute for Dixie's land
To reinforce our comrades
And check the rebel band.

It was at the town of Perryville,
Where first we met the foe-
Where many a brave companion
Did fall to rise no more.
We never shall forget them,
Our comrades true and brave,
They have fallen for their country,
And filled a soldier's grave.

Next came the battle of Stone River,
On the Cedar Plain;
And after nine days' fighting,
We hurled them back again.
The contest was most fearful
Amid the storm and rain.
And on that bloody battlefield
Many there were slain.

On Chickamauga's bloody field,
As I remember well,
Our forces were outnumbered-
To retreat we were compelled.
For many a long hour
The cannon loud did roar,
While many a heroe's heart did cease
To beat forever more.

On Chattanooga's rugged heights-
They soon were stationed there,
And Rosecrans' army
They thought to soon ensnare.
But from the old Potomac
Soon came the twentieth corps,
Which reinforced our number
Full twenty thousand more.

Way down in Lookout Valley
Were formed our boys in blue,
The mountain was in front of them,
And all the Rebel crew.
The signal sounded "forward!"
And they quickly did obey,
When General Bragg and officers
Were forced to ride away.

The rebel ranks were breaking
And fleeing to the rear,
Close followed by the Western boys-
The noble volunteer.
Then we had gained the victory,
There floats the stripes and stars
Where but one hour ere that time
They waived the stars and bars.

Both conquered and demoralized,
They were forced to Tunnel Hill,
While many of the southern defenders
Were captives on the field.
They reorganized their army
And fortified once more
Determined when the Yankees came
That they would lay them low.

Then came our noble Sherman,
With a heart both loyal and true,
To command the Cumberland army,
And the Rebel hosts subdue.
But we remained all silent
Until the first of May,
When the bugle sounded assembly
And we soon were on the way.

We fought them down at Tunnel Hill,
Also at Resaca, too,
And hurled them down through Kingston,
So close we did pursue.
They halted at Altoona Pass
And fortified once more,
To check the advancing column
Of General Hooker's corps.

For two long weeks we fought them-
We fought both day and night,
When we surprised and flanked them,
And again they were put to flight.
At Kenesaw they formed their lines
For many miles in length;
But we soon were hovering 'round them,
Once more to try their strength.

Atlanta was our destination;
Possession we did obtain
By hurling back the rebel force
Step by step we gained.
Then they became so weary;
They thought that we were done
And they would call us back to Nashville,
To where we first begun.

Then General Hood with his followers,
Soon commenced the raid,
When Billy Sherman showed to them
That they could only trade-
Hood, he went to Tennessee,
And Sherman to the sea-
General Thomas down to Pulaski
To meet the rebel host.

General Thomas was our commander,
And Hood we did pursue,
When at the town of Franklin
An engagement then ensued.
But we, being overpowered
When the day had passed away,
We retired from the battlefield,
To meet some other day.

When we arrived at Nashville,
After many weary steps
We gained our reinforcements,
And on the field we met.
Full forty-eight hours we fought them-
We fought them hand to hand,
When General Hood exclaimed to them
"We can no longer stand."

Then they were almost conquered,
Both in the east and west;
To fight the Yankees longer
They did not think it best.
And then they all surrendered
And soon gave up the ghost,
Jeff bade adieu to Richmond
Clad in petticoats.

Oh, ye Southern sympathizer,
It is time to close your mouth.
Just think whose bones are bleaching
All o'er the sunny South!
Think of the many patriots
That fought this cruel war,
While you remained at home
Without a single scar!

God bless the orphan children,
And the widows all!
Also the many heroes
That in the field did fall.
But, now the war is over,
And the fortunate ones returned,
Once more to enjoy the freedom
Our many hardships earned.

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Address delivered by H. O. Harden at the 90th Ohio Regimental Reunion at McArthur, September 1895.

The committee assigned to me an address, without stating the subject. I suppose that they intended that I should choose my own. I have thought over the matter, and have concluded that I would like to interest the younger people-those who have come among us since the war. I will take as my subject, "Going to War." Now, what is war? General Sherman said on one occasion, "War is hell." On another, he said, "War is civilized barbarism." And he knew.

In 1861, as you have all read, our nation was in peril. Armed rebellion was seeking to destroy the government. Troops were called for to suppress it. We had no regular army, or but a very small one. The soldiers to be, were from all the walks of life. Farmers, mechanics, merchants, teachers, doctors, ministers-all were represented.

"Going to war" meant a great deal. They did not go for the paltry sum of $13 a month. They went because they felt it a duty they owed their country; because their property, their homes, would be useless without a government to protect it. Somebody must go, why not they?

What did it mean when you went to war? It meant that when you signed your name to the muster roll and took an oath of fealty to the government, that you placed your life on the altar of your country. You said, by that act, that you would bare your breast to the bullets of the enemy. You said you would make long marches through the dust day by day, and sleep at night, with the ground for your couch and the sky for your roof. You said you would march through mud by day, and make it your bed by night. You said, by that act, that you would march over frozen ground, thinly clad, barefooted, leaving your footsteps stained with blood. That you would risk capture and confinement in prison. That you would walk your lonely beat, on picket, while those at home were sleeping soundly in their soft beds.

It meant, that if you were a husband and a father, that this act would make your wife a widow, and your children orphans. With the young man, it often meant the breaking of a heart dearer to him than his own life. In the case of the boys, it meant the tearing of the heart strings of an aged and loving mother. It meant sorrow, and weeping for those dear friends at home.

Now, I will draw you a picture of war times. In the little village, or at a country school house, may be, a war meeting is held. Drums are beating, fifes are playing and speakers are urging enlistments. The recruiting officer, perhaps the man who is to be an officer of the company, is present. You feel it your duty to go. You finally step up and sign your name. When you tell your family, what sorrow. It seems as if some of the family were dead.
The day comes when you are to go to the front. The husband, with his wife's arms about his neck, weeping, his children clinging to him, bids them a last good bye, and is gone.

Who can measure the depth of sorrow in that household?

The husband is at the front. He writes and tells his wife of his army life, of his marches, his hardships, and anxiously awaits a reply. This goes on for months. A great battle is fought. It may be Bull Run or Shiloh; Gettysburg or Stone River; Vicksburgh or Antietam; Frederickburgh or Chickamauga; Nashville or Chancellorsville-no matter. A daily paper is received at the village post-office. In it are the names of the killed and wounded. One of the neighbors glances over the list, and there finds the name of this husband among the killed. Who will break the awful news to his wife? They talk it over, and a neighbor and his wife go to the little home of the woman. She sees by their blanched faces that they have bad news. "Tell me quick," she said, "Is John killed?" They break it gently as possible, then she sits and stares, like a figure of stone, not a tear dims her eyes. Then the fountains of her sorrow break up, and she now realizes the awful situation, and in anguish she exclaims, "My God, I am a widow and my children are fatherless."
This is only one case among many thousands.

I will draw you another picture. If any of you young ladies are in love, you can appreciate it. This thing "love," is too lightly spoken of. "God is love." Young men and young women have fallen in love in all ages past, and will continue to do so, so long as there is a pair left.

A young lady and gentleman have, through a long courtship, agreed to walk together through life, as man and wife. This cruel war comes on and the young man feels it his duty to go to war. His sweetheart begs of him not to go. He still insists that it is his duty to go, that a home without a government to protect it would be mockery. She consents and her lover enrolls his name. The time comes for him to leave for the scenes of strife and bloodshed. And that last parting. It is enough to make angels weep. They each pledge fidelity to the other, no matter what comes. How eagerly she watches for his letters, and how she steals softly to her room and reads them. Then she reads again and again. How she wrestles with hope and fear for his safe return. He, as eagerly waits for her letters, and when out on a lonely picket post, he is thinking of her. He sits in his tent, or walks out to some secluded spot and reads. Then he draws from his breast pocket a tin type of a pure and noble girl, and he looks, and he looks at it, and perhaps speaks to it, perchance he kisses it.

One day this girl receives a letter from the army. It does not look like the handwriting of her lover. Her hand trembles and she shakes like an aspen. She opens it, and finds that the letter was written by one of her lover's comrades. He tells her that James, her noble lover, is dead. That he waited on him, and promised that if he died he would write and tell her. He tells her how they dug a grave beside an oak, wrapped him in his blanket and gently laid him away, and marked his grave with a piece of board with his name cut thereon. Oh, what depth of sorrow in that pure, young girl's heart. None but a Christ could fathom it.

This, too, is only one picture of many thousands all over this land. What is true of the North, as to suffering loss of friends, is also true of the South, though they were fighting on the wrong side.

Though I fear I will tire you, I can not refrain from drawing one more picture-one of these grayhaired veterans will know.

I see before me, a large army of soldiers, confronting as brave and determined an army as their own. They march and countermarch in the enemy's own country. Footsore and hungry they march, and march all day and far into the night. Hungry and thirsty, they lie down to sleep and dream of home and its comforts. They dream of frugal meals at the old homestead. They dream they have been to the little country church and have associated with their neighbors. They see the wife of their bosom and their dear little prattling children. They see their dear old father and mother. They see that dear, young lady who has promised to be their wife. It may be the angels were hovering over them, and caused them to dream, which was an oasis in the deserts of their hardships. They wake-it was only a dream. On they go next day, and next day-for weeks perhaps. They meet the enemy. A hotly contested field is fought over, and then fought over again.

Their comrades fall all around them. They know not how soon they will be numbered among the dead or wounded. Night comes on. It is dark and rainy. They grope their way over the field among the slain, amid groans, uttered with anguish tongue can not describe, looking and hunting for their fallen comrades.
They are gathered and buried in one long trench, their tomb unmarked, their names unknown.

The living go on, from one hard fought field to another, for four long years, sleeping on the cold ground, exposed to rain and snow, many times hungry and but little to eat. Some are captured and spend long, long months in prison. Many die there-but few return. These men, or boys, by their hardships, contracted disease from which they will never recover. Though they may look reasonably healthy, there is disease sapping away their lives. These men come home and resume their respective avocations in life. Just as they were good soldiers, so are they good citizens. They often think of their comrades who were left behind. They remember where they buried them. They never forget those who shared the hardships with them. Their comradeship is cemented with ties that can never be broken, for they are ties bound and cemented by the blood of their fallen comrades.

Is it any wonder then, that we make so much of each other at these reunions? I believe that the grand old 90th will keep up these fraternal meetings so long as two of them are left, and should I be fortunate enough to be one of the last two, I will endeavor to meet the other one somewhere, and when we are all gone, let us hope that we'll have a full regimental reunion on the other side of the river that marks the boundary of our earthly pilgrimage.