d to the sound, so unlike that
which they had been hearing all day.

"Strange, isn't it?" said Pennington.

"But fine to hear," said Warner.

"Likely they were in the tree this morning when the battle began,"
said Dick, "and the cannon and the rifles frightened 'em so much that
they stayed close within the leaves. Now they're singing with joy,
because it's all over."

"A good guess, I think, Dick," said Warner, "but isn't it beautiful at
such a time and such a place? How these little fellows must be swelling
their throats! I don't believe they ever sang so well before."

"I didn't think today that I'd be sung to sleep tonight," said Dick,
"but it's going to happen."

When his eyes closed and he floated away to slumberland it was to the
thrilling song of a bird on a bough above his head.

CHAPTER VIII

THE MESSENGER FROM RICHMOND

It seemed that Dick and his comrades were to see an activity in the
valley under Sheridan much like that which Harry and his friends had
experienced under Stonewall Jackson earlier in the war. All of the men
before they went to sleep that night had felt confirmed in the belief
that a strong hand was over them, and that a powerful and clear mind
was directing them. There would be no more prodigal waste of men and
supplies. No more would a Southern general have an opportunity to beat
scattered forces in detail. The Union had given Sheridan a splendid
army and a splendid equipment, and he would make the most of both.

Their belief in Sheridan's activity and energy was justified fully,
perhaps to their own discomfort, as the trumpets sounded before dawn,
and they ate a hasty breakfast, while the valley was yet dark. Then
they were ordered to saddle and ride at once.

"What, so early?" exclaimed Pennington. "Why, it's not daylight yet.
Isn't this new general of ours overdoing it?"

"We wanted a general who would lead," said Warner, "and we've got him."

"But a battle a day! Isn't that too large an allowance?"

"No. We've a certain number of battles to fight, and the sooner we fight
them the sooner the war will be over."

"Here comes the dawn," said Dick, "and the bugles are singing to us to
march. It's the cavalry that are to show the way."

The long line of horsemen rode on southward, leaving behind them
Winchester, the little city that had been beloved of Jackson, and
approached the Massanuttons, the bold range that for a while divided the
valley into two pa