urs in the art of murder,--and
two men dug him a grave on the green before the mill, wherein he was
tossed like a dog or a vulture, to be lulled, let us hope, by the music
of the grinding, when grain shall ripen once more.

I had an opportunity, after dinner, to inspect the camp of the
"Bucktails," a regiment of Pennsylvania backwoodsmen, whose efficiency
as skirmishers has been adverted to by all chroniclers of the civil war.
They wore the common blue blouse and breeches, but were distinguished by
squirrel tails fastened to their caps. They were reputed to be the best
marksmen in the service, and were generally allowed, in action, to take
their own positions and fire at will. Crawling through thick woods, or
trailing serpent-like through the tangled grass, these mountaineers were
for a time the terror of the Confederates; but when their mode of
fighting had been understood, their adversaries improved upon it to such
a degree that at the date of this writing there is scarcely a Corporal's
guard of the original Bucktail regiment remaining. Slaughtered on the
field, perishing in prison, disabled or paroled, they have lost both
their prestige and their strength. I remarked among these worthies a
partiality for fisticuffs, and a dislike for the manual of arms. They
drilled badly, and were reported to be adepts at thieving and unlicensed
foraging.

The second night in camp was pleasantly passed. Some sociable
officers--favorites with Captain Kingwalt--congregated under the
tarpaulin, after supper-hour, and when a long-necked bottle had been
emptied and replenished, there were many quaint stories related and
curious individualities revealed. I dropped asleep while the hilarity
was at its height, and Fogg covered me with a thick blanket as I lay.
The enemy might have come upon us in the darkness; but if death were
half so sound as my slumber afield, I should have bid it welcome.

CHAPTER IV.

A FORAGING ADVENTURE.

There was a newsboy named "Charley," who slept at Captain Kingwalt's
every second night, and who returned my beast to his owner in
Washington. The aphorism that a Yankee can do anything, was exemplified
by this lad; for he worked my snail into a gallop. He was born in
Chelsea, Massachusetts, and appeared to have taken to speculation at the
age when most children are learning A B C. He was now in his fourteenth
year, owned two horses, and employed another boy to sell papers for him
likewise. His profits