"Ha!" says he sadly, "the garrison has cut its way through the fog and escaped, but Fort Muggins is ours! Let the flag of our Union be planted on the ramparts," says Villiam, with much perspiration, "and I will immediately issue a proclamation to the people of the United States of America."

Believing that Villiam was somewhat too hasty in his conclusions, my boy, I ventured to insinuate that what he had taken for a fort in the fog, was really nothing but a cabbage inclosure, and that the escaped rebels were purely imaginary.

"Imaginary!" says Villiam, hastily placing his canteen in his pocket.

"Why, didn't you hear the roar of their artillery?"

"Do you see that thick wood yonder?" says I.

Says he, "It is visible to the undressed eye."

"Well," says I, "what you took for the sound of rebel firing, was only the echo of your own firing in that wood."

Villiam pondered for a few moments, my boy, like one who was considering the propriety of saying nothing in as few words as possible, and then looked angularly at me, and says he:

"My proclamation to the press will cover all this, and the news of this here engagement will keep until the war is over. Ah!" says Villiam, "I wouldn't have the news of this affair published on any account; for if the Government thought I was trying to cabbage in my Department, it would make me Minister to Russia immediately."

As the Conic Section of the Mackerel Brigade returned slowly to head-quarters, my boy, I thought to myself: How often does man, after making something his particular forte, discover at last that it is only a cabbage-patch, and hardly large enough at that for a big hog like himself!

Yours, philanthropically,

ORPHEUS C. KERR.

LETTER x.x.xIV.

BEGINNING WITH A LAMENTATION, BUT CHANGING MATERIALLY IN TONE AT THE DICTUM OF JED SMITH.

WASHINGTON, D.C., March 8th, 1862.

Two days ago, my boy, a letter from the West informed me that an old friend of mine had fallen in battle at the very moment of victory. One by one, my boy, I have lost many friends since the war began, and know how to bear the stroke; but what will they say in that home to which the young soldier wafted a nightly prayer? Thither, alas! he goes

NO MORE.

Hushed be the song and the love-notes of gladness That broke with the morn from the cottager's door-- m.u.f.fle the tread in the soft stealth of sadness, For one who returneth, whose chamber-lamp burneth No more.

Silent he lies on the broad path of glory, Where withers ungarnered the red crop of war.

Grand is his couch, though the pillows are gory, 'Mid forms that shall battle, 'mid guns that shall rattle No more.

Soldier of Freedom, thy marches are ended-- The dreams that were prophets of triumph are o'er-- Death with the night of thy manhood is blended-- The bugle shall call thee, the fight shall enthrall thee No more.

Far to the Northward the banners are dimming, And faint comes the tap of the drummers before; Low in the tree-tops the swallow is skimming; Thy comrades shall cheer thee, the weakest shall fear thee No more.

Far to the Westward the day is at vespers, And bows down its head, like a priest, to adore; Soldier, the twilight for thee has no whispers, The night shall forsake thee, the morn shall awake thee No more.

Wide o'er the plain, where the white tents are gleaming, In spectral array, like the graves they're before-- One there is empty, where once thou wert dreaming Of deeds that are boasted, of One that is toasted No more.

When the Commander to-morrow proclaimeth A list of the brave for the nation to store, Thou shalt be known with the heroes he nameth, Who wake from their slumbers, who answer their numbers No more.

Hushed be the song and the love-notes of gladness That broke with the morn from the cottager's door-- m.u.f.fle the tread in the soft stealth of sadness, For one who returneth, whose chamber-lamp burneth No more.

To escape my own thoughts, I went over into a camp of New England chaps, yesterday, my boy, and one of the first high-privates my eyes rested on was Jed Smith, of Salsbury. He winked to the chaps lounging near him, when he noted my doleful look, and says he:

"You're mopish, comrade. Hez caliker proved deceitful?"

"No," says I, indifferently. "Calico rather shuns me, as a general thing, my Down-easter, on account of my plain speaking."

This startled him, my boy, as I expected it would, and says he:

"That's jest like the mock-modesty of the wimmin folks all the world over, and a body might think they had the hull supply and nothin'

shorter; but I tell ye it's the heartiest sow that makes the least noise, and half this here modesty is all sham. Onct in a while these here awful modest critters git shook down a bit, I guess; and gheewhillikins! ef it don't do me good to see it. I recollect I was goin' down from Augusty some two years ago, in the old stage that Sammy Tompkins druv, and we had one of the she-critters aboard--and she _was_ a scrouger, I tell ye! Bonnet red as a blaze, and stuck all over with stiff geeranium blows, a hump like a Hottentot gal, and sich ankles!

but hold your horses, I'm gettin' ahead of time. We was awful crowded, and no mistake--piled right on top of each other, like so many layers of cabbage; and the way that gal squealed when we struck a rut, was a caution to screech owls. And she was takin' up her sheer of the coach, too, I guess; and kind of stretched her walkin' geer way under the seat in front of her, and out t'other side, just to brace herself agin the diffikilties of travel. It being pretty bad goin' down in them parts, she had on a pair of her brother's butes, and they was what she wouldn't have had seen if she'd knowed it. One of the fellers on the middle seat was Zeb Green--gone to glory some time ago--and when he spied them butes, he winked to me, and sung out:

"Gheewhillikins! who owns these ere big trotters?"

"Now, ye see, the she-critter was one of yer modest ones, and she wouldn't have owned up for the world, after that. Says she:

"'I guess they ain't mine.'

"Zeb see her game in a twinklin', and he was a tall one for a lark; so says he:

"'I rayther guess there's petticuts goes with them mud mashers.'

"The gal she flamed up at that, and says she:

"'I guess you're barkin' up the wrong saplin', Major, and yer must have a most audacious turkey on, not to know yer own butes.'

"Sich lyin' tuk Zeb all aback for a minute; but he combed up his bristles again, and tried her on another trail.

"'Now, you don't mean to come for to insinuate that them ere's _my_ butes, and I not know it?' says he:

"She was in for it then, and wouldn't back down; so says she:

"'In course I do, Major, and you'd better look out fur your own leather.'

"Zeb took a chaw of his terbacky, and says he:

"'Well, if you says it's so, I'm bound to swaller the oyster; but I'll be dod-rotted if my bute-maker won't hev to shave my last next winter.'

"I seen right off that Zeb was up to the biggest kind of a spree, and I knew them butes was the gist of it; cause ye see the she-critter couldn't hull 'em in nohow, after what she'd said.

"We went wrigglin' along for a while as still as cats in a milk-house, and the butes stayed where they was. But pretty soon Zeb began to grow uneasy like, and screwed up his ugly nose, like as if he was took with the pangs, and the doctor gone a courtin'.

"'Gheewhillikins!' says he, at last, 'I shan't stand this here much longer, if there _is_ company in the parlor!'

"We all looked at him, and says one feller: