hing to strike an observer would have been, perhaps,
their surprising youth. They were all young--the eldest hardly more than
three and twenty--and the faces bore a curious resemblance in type, as if
they were, one and all, variations from a common stock. There was about
them, too, a peculiar expression of enthusiasm, showing even in the faces
of those who slept; a single wave of emotion which, rising to its height in
an entire people revealed itself in the features of the individual soldier.
As yet the flower of the South had not withered on its stalk, and the men
first gathered to defend the borders were men who embraced a cause as
fervently as they would embrace a woman; men in whom the love of an
abstract principle became, not a religion, but a romantic passion.

Beyond them, past the scattered tents and the piles of clean straw, the
bruised grass of the field swept down to a little stream and the fallen
stones that had once marked off the turnpike. Farther away, there was a
dark stretch of pines relieved against the faint blue tracery of the
distant mountains.

Dan, sitting in the thin shelter on the woodpile, threw a single glance at
the strip of pines, and brought back his gaze to Big Abel who was splitting
an oak log hard by. The work had been assigned to the master, who had, in
turn, tossed it to the servant, with the remark that he "came out to kill
men, not to cut wood."

"I say, Big Abel, this sun's blazing hot," he now offered cheerfully.

Big Abel paused for a moment and wiped his brow with his blue cotton
sleeve.

"Dis yer ain' no oak, caze it's w'it-leather," he rejoined in an injured
tone, as he lifted the axe and sent it with all his might into the
shivering log, which threw out a shower of fine chips. The powerful stroke
brought into play the negro's splendid muscles, and Dan, watching him,
carelessly observed to a young fellow lying half asleep upon the ground,
"Big Abel could whip us all, Bland, if he had a mind to."

Bland grunted and opened his eyes; then he yawned, stretched his arms, and
sat up against the logs. He was bright and boyish-looking, with a frank
tanned face, which made his curling flaxen hair seem almost white.

"I worked like a darky hauling yesterday," he said reproachfully, "but when
your turn comes, you climb a woodpile and pass the job along. When we go
into battle I suppose Dandy and you will sit down to boil coffee, and hand
your muskets to the servants."

"Oh, are we