BLAIR, a regular, said to be of the Seventeenth, was shot through the groin at El Caney, July 1. Two wounded men of the Seventy-first New York fell beside him in worse shape than he. They could not move. He could a little. A Spanish sharpshooter on their right had the range of them as they lay there, their comrades having pushed on. Altho down, the three men were his target. “Spit,” and one of the bullets cut a lock of hair from Blair’s forehead. “Spit” again, and one of the New Yorkers winced as his shoulder was cut. Blair for a time could not locate the fellow, but finally discovered him 200 yards distant up a tree. He was incautious, and displayed himself, in taking aim. Blair had a gun beside him, and with one shot brought him down. Then, wounded in the groin as he was, he crawled 900 feet to his enemy to get his canteen of water, and 900 feet back, not touching it himself, and poured it down the throats of the two New Yorkers. He died holding the drink to the lips of one of them. His only remark as to his journey was:— “I’m a regular. You fellows have homes.” One of the New Yorkers survived to return home and tell the story of this hero’s end. —Anon.