BLUE RIDGE.
The event which we are about to relate, happened when for the first time we were placed on picket guard, at Covington, Ky., we were stationed three on a post, with strict orders for one at least to remain awake at all times. The countersign that night, was "Blue Ridge," and about nightfall we received it. One of our boys, very anxious to do his duty properly, was on post when the "grand rounds," as it is termed, was made; at midnight, hearing the approaching footsteps, and, perhaps, feeling the fate of the country resting on his individual shoulders, he halted them when they came near. "Halt," he cried, "you can't pass here unless you say 'Blue Ridge,'" Poor Jake, that word was dinned in his ears for many a long day after, and in fact he went by the name of "Blue Ridge" for the balance of the time we were in the service. At daylight we roused up, and looking off in the direction of our front, saw in the distance a farm house; this brought to our minds visions of breakfast, so after a short conference together, we picked up our guns and marched off, leaving the picket post to take care of itself. We went to the farm house and called for breakfast, which we got and paid for, and then returned to our post. Whether our absence was ever found out or not, we never ascertained, and in fact did not care, but it was not long before we learned that this was not the way in which picket duty should be performed.