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Marse Billy, he tek her in his arms, an' he kiss her saf' an' lovin', an' she tu'n white ez er ghos', but her big brown eyes dey shinin' lak fire. 'I wish ter Gawd I could go wid you, an' fight fur my country, too,' she tell him."

Uncle Mose rested both hands upon his knees, a meditative, far-away look in his eyes.

"She stan' dar smilin' at him, and wavin' her leetle lace hankcher, jes ez long ez she kin see him, an' ain't nobody but me eber know how she fling herse'f on de groun' arter he done went, an' lay dar sobbin' an' cryin' wuss 'an she done de day Marse Billy kilt her pet rabbit wid his blow-gun.

"Well, suh, dem wuz turrible times! Ole Miss she look lak she 'mos' 'stracted ev'y time she read in de papers 'bout de big battles whar dey fit, kase she cyant git no news o' yo' pa. You see, he wuz up in Ferginny, an' wunst he come home wid his arm broke, an' den ag'in dey shoot him in de leg, but scusin' er ball clippin' off Marse Billy's white plume, he writ Miss Kate ez how he ain't got er scratch. So one ebenin' whilst Ole Miss and Miss Kate wuz settin' on de big front po'ch knittin' socks an' scrapin' lint fur de sojers, a scout rid up ter de steps. His hoss wuz blowin', an' foamy wid sweat, he done come so farst, an' ez he lif' his cap, he say, sorter chokin', lak he cyant ketch his bref, 'Miss Kate, try ter be brave. I'se fetchin' you Billy's love, an' he want me ter tell you he's gwinter die wid yo' name on his lips. Billy's been captured inside de Yankee lines, an' termorrer dey's ter hang him in Natchez fer er spy. "

Uncle Mose's pipe had gone out, so he laid it on the floor beside him, and sat there rubbing his gnarled hands.

"Dat young sojer an' Ole Miss, dey breck down an' 'mos' cry dey eyes out, but aldough Miss Kate's lips wuz p'int'ly trimblin', she ain't drapt nary tear.

"Dat's de time Miss Kate show her raisin," he remarked, after a while, with a touch of pride in his tone. "When trouble gits rank, de quality allus comes up ter de scratch, an' dar ain't no scrub stock 'bout we all.

"Unk Mose, Miss Kate say, quiet lak, 'before' sun-down dis ebenin' you mus' git us ter Natchez.'

"Twuz two o'clock den, an' my pa'r ole mules (whar wuz all de sojers done lef' us) dey stove up an' po', an' fo'teen miles ter go. But I 'spon' ter her, 'Yes'm, we'll be dar on time. So dreckly dey wuz all ready-Ole Miss, an' Miss Sue, an' Miss Kate, an' aldough de harness ain't nuffin but cotton ropes, an' de collars made outen shucks, I put on dis heah weskit wid de flowers lookin' ez fresh as dem in Ole Miss' flower gyarden, an' I cock my stovepipe hat on de side o' my haid, an' I driv thoo dem streets 'mos' big ez old Marster hisse'f.

"All de ladies, 'cep Miss Kate, got dey faces kivered up wid veils when we stop at de prison, an' er rared back, good-lookin' young feller, wid er gun on his shoulder, keep er trompin' up an' down befo' de do'. Ef eber you heerd er voice soun' sweet an' pleadin' twuz Miss Kate when she talkin' wid dat gyard. He p'int'ly spresserfy ter her dat she cyant go in. But whut 'pendence is dar in er man when er 'oman gits holt o' him?

""Oh! suh, hab pity on us!' she tell him. 'Let us see him jes five minutes ter say our las' goodbye. Mebbe you done lef somebody up home whar loves you lak I does him.'

"Well, suh, 'twuzn't no wonder he say 'yas, kase ef he hed ben er gineral stid o' er gyard, Miss Kate could er 'suaded him. He melt wuss 'an snow when de sun shine on it, an' when dey all come back ag'in, an' Miss Kate, she hol' out her leetle han' ter him, an' ax Gawd ter bless him, whilst de res 's clambin' in de kerrige, he wuz cryin' 'mos' bad ez we all.

"Den I sez ter myse'f, is dis heah nigger gittin' bline? I mek sho dar wuz jes three whut come wid me, an' now when we start orf dar wuz fo'. "Yas, chile, yo' Aunt Kate done it-she dress Mars Billy up lak er lady, wid er veil ober his face, an' she smile on dat gyard twell she 'mos' 'tice his heart outen his jacket. He 'pear ter be er nice young feller, anyway, an' I 'low de good Lawd ain't sot it down ag'in him, kase he furgit ter count dat day.

"Marse Billy, he j'ined his company on de road home, an' you bet dar wuzn't no hangin' in Natchez nex' mawnin', but Gawd knows Marse Billy suttinly hed er monst'ous close call."

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WAR SKETCHES.

BY GENERAL HORATIO C. KING.

EFO' de Wah " I was a student at Dickinson College, and among my classmates was a handsome Southerner, Jack C., from Winchester, Va., who became and remained until his death, a few years ago,

my close and intimate friend. We exchanged visits in vacations, and I thus formed the acquaintance of a most lovely Southern family, typical in its hospitality and the warm welcome always extended their friend, a Yankee of Yankees; for I was born in Maine.

At graduation our paths divided, and a little more than two years after was precipitated the terrible Civil War. Jack's household comprised his father and mother, who were of middle age, one brother, a young clergyman, and a sister, Miss Joe, who had been reared in refinement, and was scantily `equipped to battle with the severe privations and domestic services which the fortunes of war thrust upon her, but for which, like thousands of her Southern sisters, she found herself more than a match. Although primarily opposed to the secession of Virginia, loyalty to the State carried this family, heart and soul, with the Confederacy, and as Winchester became almost at the outset debatable ground, Mr. C. accepted a public office in Richmond, while the elder brother was appointed a chaplain, and Jack entered the ranks of the Confederate army. I had been in the Union service a little over two years with the Army of the Potomac, when I received an order to report for duty to General Sheridan, in the Shenandoah Valley, with headquarters at Cedar Creek, about twenty miles beyond Winchester. Martinsburg was the base of supplies for the army, the railroad from Harper's Ferry to Winchester having been dismantled, and rendered unserviceable; and I reported at Martinsburg to take advantage of the first supply train, under the The Fear of escort of a brigade, made necessary by the presence, not to Moseby's Guerrillas. say omnipresence, of Moseby's guerrillas, which regularly harassed the flanks, and on several occasions stampeded and carried off a portion of the train. It was late in October, and the nights were already pretty cold, when I reached Martinsburg. I found the town filled with wounded and stragglers, and visitors from the North in search of husbands and brothers killed or mutilated. At the depot, which I reached in the dusk of the evening, I found the platform completely filled with rude pine coffins, containing the killed, and awaiting shipment. To avoid the chilling air, for a stiff breeze was blowing, my clerk, orderly and myself tucked ourselves away in a sheltered nook formed by the piled-up coffins, and wrapped in our warm blankets, with boots for pillows, we enjoyed, as well as we might, some of the comforts of a soldier's experience. The next day the supply train, two or three miles long, started for the front. Moseby's scouts kept us continually in sight, but the strength of our escort made any attack unwise, and none was attempted.

Welcome.

It was about dark when we had covered the twenty miles between Martinsburg and Winchester. Although I had not heard from my old friends directly since the war began, and having some misgivings of the reception which might be accorded one of the "subjugators of their people," I nevertheless went at once to the hospitable residence on the outskirts of the little old-fashioned town on the site classically denominated "Potato Hill." I had discarded the handsome dark-blue overcoat, the regulation dress for officers, as well as the dark-blue pants, and substituted therefor the more practical corduroy breeches and the blue overcoat issued to the rank and file, and thus caparisoned ascended the steps and rang the bell. The door was opened by the entire household, which comprised at that time Mrs. C., the daughter, and a bright little colored girl of about twelve, the whites of whose eyes fairly gleamed before the appalling presence of a Yankee soldier. For a moment not a word was spoken. Mrs. C. at length broke the silence by demanding the object of my visit, to which I made no reply. At length, impelled by their embarrassment and A Hearty Southern scarcely-concealed alarm, my face broke into a smile, and, with a cry of surprise, Joe exclaimed: "Why, Rashe King, you old Yankee, go away from here!" at the same time grasping me by the hand and drawing me into the house. The transition from anxious fear to unconcealed relief was immediate. The alarm was the sequence of a recent search of the house by a provost-guard for a Confederate flag, which, it had been reported, was concealed on the premises, and always appeared at the window when the fortunes of war returned Winchester into Confederate hands. I may as well mention in passing, that the flag was never captured, and I strongly suspected that when a raid was anticipated, it was worn as an under garment by Miss Joe, or was snugly tucked away somewhere in the region of as warm a heart as ever beat in woman's bosom for the Southern cause. After a pleasant evening, I returned to the depot headquarters, and the next day rode out to Cedar Creek, reported to gallant little Phil, and, after two weeks on his staff, was assigned, at my own and Merritt's request, to duty on the staff of General Wesley Merritt, then commanding the First Cavalry Division. Our headquarters were in an old stone house, around which the battle had raged

Some Delicious Southern Cooking.

most fiercely, and the fields for miles were strewn with dead horses, broken gun-carriages and caissons, and the usual debris of a severe engagement. In a few weeks, the railroad to Harper's Ferry having been repaired, the army moved near to Winchester, our headquarters being established three miles from town, in a brick house, on the Front Royal road. The house was thoroughly ventilated, through the agency of an unfriendly shell, which removed enough of the front wall to drive a horse and cart through. Here we remained until February, though not inactively, making a raid into Loudon county, and two or three reconnoissances, merely to stave off ennui, and stir up the animals. As the softy of 9,000 men and four-footed animals required me to make almost daily visits to Winchester, I found it both convenient and highly agreeable to have a room at the C.'s, and it served also as a protection to the family from stragglers and night marauders, who gave a wide birth to any house where they knew officers to be quartered. Colonel Harry Crawford, our commissary, shared this hospitality, and a large part of our rations and many sutler's supplies reappeared in fancy and most palatable dishes on their table. Miss Joe, by stress of necessity, had become an experienced cook, and with some fine old sherry left in the wine cellar, could transform mutton into the finest venison stew I ever tasted. With equal magic, army hard-tack, and the harder the better, became a maccaroni au gratin, such as Delmonico's chef might have envied. By common consent, the topic uppermost everywhere else, the war, was carefully avoided, after two or three discussions had bathed mother and daughter in tears. As I have intimated, Miss Joe was intense to bitterness against the invaders as a body, but as individuals, some of us at least had redeeming characteristics. Highly gifted in the finer lady accomplishments, she was especially skilled in embroidering, and had worked many Confederate national and war flags in handkerchief corners, one of which she presented to me. It was my patriotic desire to have her embroider what she pleasantly characterized as the "hated Yankee rag," and at this point the siege began, I approached her by parallels of unparalled importunities, but without fazing a muscle; I serenaded her with the Fifth Cavalry band, to no purpose; I bombarded her with canned oysters and all the delicacies a sutler's tent affords; I made all sorts of protestations short of a promise of marriage (which she would doubtless have rejected), but without avail. Finally, a brief leave of absence brought a suspension of hostilities, and I left for New York, to bring on my heavier guns. I have no doubt it was an inspiration which led me to Stewart's and the purchase of a dozen lace handkerchiefs, such as the Confederacy had not seen since the blockade. Gold was 250, and these were a luxury even

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