Over the weekend, I walked out into what appeared to be a murder scene, but the kid with the laptop wasn't talking.
This, of course, is just our oldest son napping, blocking out the light with a pillow, as I often do.
Over the weekend, I walked out into what appeared to be a murder scene, but the kid with the laptop wasn't talking.
This, of course, is just our oldest son napping, blocking out the light with a pillow, as I often do.
The Indiana and the Illinois units came over the barricade north of the railroad and captured a gun. Private James S. Adkins of the 33rd Illinois, exhilarated by the bloodless victory, leaped astride the gun tube, waved his elbows up and down at his sides, and crowed like a rooster. Then, curious, he tugged at the lanyard. The gun went off, hurling a shell close over the heads of the units coming up in support, and bucking Adkins head over heels into the dirt. Miraculously, no one was hurt.
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