ire-eater of the South. The mothers don't like this--but mothers
can't help themselves in many instances. Our boys will visit and enjoy
a lively chat with the girls whenever occasion offers. A quartette, of
fine vocal abilities, belonging to the gallant Rousseau's division,
had practiced several beautiful ballads, preparatory to a grand
serenade to the daughters of the buxom widow.

Night threw her mantle o'er the earth just as the serenaders started
upon their expedition. Arriving in dew course of time, they commenced
their melodies. The moon was peeping out from behind the far-distant
hill as they commenced,

"Roll on, silver moon,"

at which I suggested to the party there should be a big premium, just
now, on "_silver_ moons." The serenaders smiled grimly, in token of
admiration of the "_goak_," and commenced--

"Thine eyes, like the stars that are gleaming,
Have entered the depths of my soul."

Now, the repetition of "my soul" sounded to me exactly like mice-hole,
and I suggested the propriety of substituting a rat-hole, at which
several became wrathy, and proposed a mustard-plaster for my head.

The young ladies, aroused from their nocturnal slumbers, glided like
sylphs to the windows, and threw several bouquets to the "gallant
choristers," after the reception of which, and sundry pressures to
fond hearts of the "beautiful flowers," the quartette commenced the
song of "Home Again," etc., and

"O, it fills my soul with joy, to meet my friends once more."

This brought the widow to the window, who, hastily flinging back the
shutter, screamed out, at the top of her voice: "If it will give you
Yankees any greater joy to get home than it will me, I hope to
gracious you'll stop your confounded noise and go home and meet your
friends, for you've got none here."

This was a bomb-shell thrown right at the party, and such a crouching
down and gradual sliding off you can scarcely imagine. To be led, as
't were, to the seventh heaven of bliss by the fair daughters'
presentation of beautiful bouquets, and then to have all their hopes
blasted by the termagant voice of the mamma! If any of my readers ever
visit Rousseau's division and inquire for the serenaders, my word for
it, the gentlemen concerned will have no recollection of the serenade.

Colonel Loomis, whose name is now engraven in history, and whose
battery is mentioned with pride everywhere in the Army of the
Cumberland, was, during the Virginia c