left; the river gleams and sparkles as it flows
between its rugged banks of stone; the shadowy flags rise and fall
lazily; the sentinels walk to and fro on their beats with silvered
bayonets, and the dull glare of the camp-fires, and the snow-white
tents, are seen every-where.

Somebody, possibly the Adjutant, whose thoughts may be still running on
the fair unknown, breaks forth:

"O why did she flatter my boyish pride,
She is going to leave me now;"

And then, with a vehemence which betokens desperation,

"I'll hang my harp on a willow tree,
And off to the wars again."

From which I infer it would be highly satisfactory to the young man to
be demolished at the enemy's earliest convenience.

A large amount of stores are accumulated here. Forty thousand boxes of
hard bread are stacked in one pile at the depot, and greater quantities
of flour, pork, vinegar, and molasses, than I have ever seen before.

3. An Indiana newspaper reached camp to-day containing an obituary
notice of a lieutenant of the Eighty-eighth Indiana. It gives quite a
lengthy biographical sketch of the deceased, and closes with a letter
which purports to have been written on the battle-field by one
Lieutenant John Thomas, in which Lieutenant Wildman, the subject of the
sketch, is said to have been shot near Murfreesboro, and that his last
words were: "Bury me where I have fallen, and do not allow my body to be
removed." The letter is exceedingly complimentary to the said lamented
young man, and affirms that "he was the hero of heroes, noted for his
reckless daring, and universally beloved." The singular feature about
this whole matter is that the letter was written by the lamented young
officer himself to his own uncle. The deceased justifies his action by
saying that he had expended two dollars for foolscap and one dollar for
postage stamps in writing to the d--d old fool, and never received a
reply, and he concluded finally he would write a letter which would
interest him. It appears by the paper referred to that the lieutenant
succeeded. The uncle and his family are in mourning for another martyr
gone--the hero of heroes and the universally beloved.

Lieutenant DuBarry, topographical engineer, has just been promenading
the line of tents in his nightshirt, with a club, in search of some
scoundrel, supposed to be the Adjutant, who has stuffed his bed with
stove-wood and stones. Wilson, on seeing the gh