leave. I am glad they did, and trust they may go home, hang up their
guns, and go to work like sensible people, for then I could do the same.

23. This afternoon I rode by a mountain path to a log cabin in which a
half dozen wounded Tennesseeans are lying. One poor fellow had his leg
amputated yesterday, and was very feeble. One had been struck by a ball
on the head and a buckshot in the lungs. Two boys were but slightly
wounded, and were in good spirits. To one of these--a jovial, pleasant
boy--Dr. Seyes said, good-humoredly: "You need have no fears of dying
from a gunshot; you are too big a devil, and were born to be hung."
Colonel Marrow sought to question this same fellow in regard to the
strength of the enemy, when the boy said: "Are you a commissioned
officer?" "Yes," replied Marrow. "Then," returned he, "you ought to know
that a private soldier don't know anything."

In returning to camp, we followed a path which led to a place where a
regiment of the rebels had encamped one night. They had evidently become
panic-stricken and left in hot haste. The woods were strewn with
knapsacks, blankets, and canteens.

The ride was a pleasant one. The path, first wild and rugged, finally
led to a charming little valley, through which Beckey's creek hurries
down to the river. Leaving this, we traveled up the side of a ravine,
through which a little stream fretted and fumed, and dashed into spray
against slimy rocks, and then gathered itself up for another charge, and
so pushed gallantly on toward the valley and the sunshine.

What a glorious scene! The sky filled with stars; the rising moon; two
mountain walls so high, apparently, that one might step from them into
heaven; the rapid river, the thousand white tents dotting the valley,
the camp fires, the shadowy forms of soldiers; in short, just enough of
heaven and earth visible to put one's fancy on the gallop. The boys are
in groups about their fires. The voice of the troubadour is heard. It is
a pleasant song that he sings, and I catch part of it.

"The minstrel's returned from the war,
With spirits as buoyant as air,
And thus on the tuneful guitar
He sings in the bower of the fair:
The noise of the battle is over;
The bugle no more calls to arms;
A soldier no more, but a lover,
I kneel to the power of thy charms.
Sweet lady, dear lady, I'm thine;
I