OUR FRIENDS, THE BIRDS. 167 
was wounded by the flying bullets, but he never 
deserted his post. 
Eleven years after the close of the war, he was 
taken to the Centennial Exposition at Philadelphia in 
charge of one of the members of the old regiment. 
Soon after that he died. 
“T saw ‘Old Abe’ once,” said a boy, “ but he didn’t 
look very interesting. He just sat still and looked 
teres.” 
“When I was a very little girl,” said Laura, “ my 
father went hunting one day with a friend, along the 
banks of the Milwaukee river. I have asked him to 
tell me about it so often, I have a picture in my mind 
of the place. There were bushes and trees along the 
bank of the river, so that they could not be seen ap- 
proaching, nor could they see the water. They came, at 
last, to a bayou or perhaps a branch of the river, and as 
they reached this intersection they were surprised to see 
four or five large Eagles fly off from a rock in the river. 
“There was no time for consultation and they 
fired simultaneously. One of the Eagles fell into the 
water, and as there was a strong wind blowing it floated 
to the opposite side of the bayou. ‘This was crossed by 
a railroad bridge a little farther down, so my father 
went over and by taking considerable trouble, fished 
the Eagle out. He took it to a taxidermist and when it 
was mounted gave it to my mother. It has always 
stood on top of one of the book cases ever since I can 
remember. I used to be afraid of it, but now, if it 
