ble officers, Captain Warwick, who fell with his face to the foe, and was buried where he died. He was mourned sincerely by the whole regiment as one of their kindest and bravest officers.
On we went—my war-horse jumping over the fallen logs, and plunging into the hollows to the imminent risk of my bones; but the hanging-on process could not keep my mind from dwelling on the scenes so lately enacted on that same stretch of ground before me, and I seemed to hear the rattle of musketry, and the screeching of shells as they sent their death-dealing messengers into the ranks of the living, breathing men, and they fell like the tender flowers of summer before the sudden black frosts of November.
We reached them at last, and were greeted heartily—one little darky remarking that is was good for sore eyes to see a white lady, and "one dat didn't put on no style."
I sought the shelter of Captain Knettle's tent, and my reception-room was soon filled to its utmost capacity. I experienced some of the poetry of their situation, as standing beside the tent we heard the shrill screaming of a shell, and saw it fall only a short distance from the door. The little darky said, "Missus, you'd better git out dar; dem rebs don't mind the ladies no more'n dey do gemmen—hain't got no manners, no how."
The rifle-balls whistled through the trees, cutting through the green foliage with murderous sharpness, as though angered because they found no human heart
