As I turn'd off the Avenue one cool October evening into Thirteenth
street, a soldier with knapsack and overcoat stood at the corner
inquiring his way. I found he wanted to go part of the road in my
direction, so we walk'd on together. We soon fell into conversation. He
was small and not very young, and a tough little fellow, as I judged in
the evening light, catching glimpses by the lamps we pass'd. His answers
were short, but clear. His name was Charles Carroll; he belong'd to
one of the Massachusetts regiments, and was born in or near Lynn. His
parents were living, but were very old. There were four sons, and all
had enlisted. Two had died of starvation and misery in the prison at
Andersonville, and one had been kill'd in the west. He only was left.
He was now going home, and by the way he talk'd I inferr'd that his time
was nearly out. He made great calculations on being with his parents to
comfort them the rest of their days.