coyote, the breaking of horses, and his simple life as a cow-puncher in Oklahoma and the Indian Territory, were as fascinating as “Pony-tracks” by Frederick Remington. Before reaching Atlanta he gave me his name, Harry K. Loomis, and said he hoped to be assigned to Troop “M” of the Third. I handed him a card with my permanent address, at the same time wishing him a successful career as a soldier, and hoping the fates would ordain the continuation of a friendship that had so suddenly and unexpectedly sprung up between us like a preordained affinity.
Before we had alighted from the train, Gautrell and Clark had decided to see the Mardi Gras at New Orleans, and it pleased me greatly to have the company of two such jolly chaps, whose liberation from the arduous duties of a soldier animated them with a spirit that brooked no restraint.
On our arrival in the city, we journeyed to a hotel, where, after washing the cinders from our eyelashes and submitting to a tonsorial operation, we sat down to a good substantial Southern breakfast. Following this
Loomis bade the party good-by and left to catch his car for his post of duty. As he left the grotto-like café of the Poindexter Hotel, Sergeant Gautrell remarked, “There is about as soldierly a fellow as I ever met.” “Yes,” replied Clark, “and only a recruit at that.”
The soldiers had some shopping in the line of purchasing an outfit of “peace-togs,” as the war was over and they desired to get on a footing with the common herd, as they termed the civil throng; so, promising to meet the boys that afternoon, I hopped on a Peach Tree street-car and rode out to the old ground of the “Cotton Exposition,” where I spent a few hours, including my return, which was footed most of the way for the purpose of gazing on those beautiful old Southern homes, with their unfenced lawns extending to the sidewalks, likened unto the suburban route leading to Willow Grove, Philadelphia, though far in advance in nature’s loveliness. Old colonial mansions of stained wood and light-gray stucco—sacred to the tread of the marshals of a lost cause and the chivalrous knights of antebellum
days, whose fortunes suffered terrible wreck and ruin as the Yankees went marching through Georgia—dot the large and splendid thoroughfare for miles on either side of the long rows of sombre maples; broad piazzas, once handsome, now grown picturesque, draped by the clinging myrtles and jessamines that shed their bright petals in the sunlight; orange-blossoms in drooping sympathy with the indifferent but ever-beautiful magnolia in brilliant contrast, dispelling all doubt as to the ancestral aristocracy of these manorial mansions.
It is not at all difficult to reconstruct in one’s memory the past joyful scenes of these quaint and lovely homes, under whose eaves avowals bound by the ties of love have been softly whispered; refusals sometimes spoken, fidelity having previously been pledged; where no heed was paid to false news clandestinely carried from schools for scandal; where coquetry was at a minimum; where lies no doubt were sometimes nourished by the organs of deceit, and where passion yielded to the tempter only in platonic affection
under the twig of the mistletoe. Such were the chivalrous thoroughbred characteristics of these people to the manner born.
If the reader who has never journeyed along the quaint old Peach Tree street of Atlanta, Georgia, can imaginatively depict the moonlight scene of Julia Marlowe in “Barbara Frietchie,” he will have a monomial fac-simile of these old-time Southern homes.
Returning to the bright stimulating thoroughfare fronting the Poindexter Hotel, I alighted from my car and entered the café, where I learned that the soldiers had not yet returned. After visiting various places of interest, including the Confederate museum, I returned to the hotel and wrote letters until about 4 o’clock, when the boys launched on the scene in brand-new spick and span attire, everything completely modern. They had made inquiries about the train for New Orleans, which was scheduled to leave Atlanta at 12.02 midnight, over the “Sunset” route, giving us ample time to attend the theatre. Clark proposed a christening of the “togs”; this suggestion was emphasized