(From the “Marietta Intelligencer” of May 1, 1861.)
“The following is a part of a communication from one who occasionally contributes to our columns. It is a worthy tribute to the stranger volunteer.
“... But I cannot close without paying a passing tribute to the noble heroism of one of the volunteers who left us, today. I saw in the ranks a young German who evidently was a stranger here. I was told that he was simply on a visit to this country, but seeing the hour of peril upon us he boldly stepped into the ranks of those brave and true hearts who have just left us. As they moved down to the boat and friends were taking a final parting, he burst into tears, saying: ‘I have no friends here to bid me good bye.’ I need not say how a chord was struck by those simple words which went to every heart; his hands were grasped with a fervor which told that such noble self-sacrifice claimed the homage of every true heart.”
John T. Booth, in his diary under date of June 19th, in camp near Bridgeport, Va., notes: “I received a letter today from Miss Mary J. Krewson, of Birmingham, opposite Pittsburg, Pa. (the lady who at the close of the war became my wife.) We were playmates when about three years of age.” (Note—Dr. Booth and his good wife are both living and enjoying the comforts of an ideal home at No. 3646 Central avenue, Cincinnati, O.)
OUR CAMPS.
Our first, at Columbus, was “Camp Jackson,” now beautiful Goodale Park. At Athens, where we spent but a few days, our camp was by some called “Camp Jewett,” but I remember it as “Camp Scott.” At Marietta, “Camp Putnam.” At Parkersburg, “Camp Union,” so christened by Captain Buell. At the first “burnt bridge,” near Petroleum Station, on the B. & O. railroad, our camp took the name of “Camp Whip po’will” from the nocturnal and lugubrious serenades furnished us by this strange bird. Our next camp near Toll Gate Station, being located in an old pasture field, covered with briars, was dubbed “Camp Briar Patch,” by Manly Warren, a name that stuck.
We next went into camp near Bridgeport on the beautiful farm of a Mr. Sandusky and for him we named our camp “Sandusky.” We remained at Oakland but a few days and I think no name was given this uncomfortable camping place.
The following resolution, with others, was adopted by the boys while we were quartered at the Ohio Penitentiary: