Driving over to the extreme right of the Bull Run ground, we came out into the edge of the woods on the left of the field where the second Bull Run was fought. An old school-house, without doors, windows, desks or seats, had in some way been preserved. A few bullets and fragments of shell could still be found under the trees—there was nothing else to speak of battle, or indeed, of the presence of man for years. Leaving the ambulance here, we walked down through the woods till we struck the railroad-cut, of which Stonewall Jackson made such effective use. Here, too, a few bullets and fragments of shell were to be found; beyond was the long, rank grass covering what had once been cultivated fields. Climbing the hill—with not a few admonitions about the snakes that in the grass do hide—we reached the Second Bull Run Monument, erected by a Northern regiment at the same time with the other, and almost its _fac simile_. The inscription read: “In memory of the Patriots Who fell at Groveton, August 28th, 29th and 30th, 1862.” Since the return of the Rebels, after Lee’s surrender, another word had been carefully and conspicuously interlined and the inscription read: “In memory of the Confederate Patriots,” etc. When the rebellion began arsenals and ammunition were stolen; when it ended we had this more original performance of stealing a monument. On our return we stopped at the old log-cabin near the center of the first Bull Run battle-field. Its inhabitants, a blear-eyed, hard-drinking poor white and his wife, the latter of whom seemed to be dividing her time between her pipe and the wash-tub, had occupied the house during the whole of both battles and during the subsequent alternate possession of the field by either side. Before the war he had made a living by selling a little whisky; now he had nothing to depend on but his “patch.” This, as it subsequently appeared, was gratuitously cultivated for him by a curious old misshapen negro who considered himself in some way bound to the place. The negro brought us some cider, of indescribable taste. “How in the world did you make this, uncle?” “Why, sah, I only had few rotten apples, but I’s got plenty peaches. So I pounds up de apples and de peaches togedder in a bary, wid a pessle. Den I puts water in to make de juice come, cause it’s so dry. Den I put away de juice, and gibs it to gemmen, and dey always gibs me somefin den what makes me laugh.” He thought the end of the world was coming, sure, at the time of the first battle. Afterward, when the second came, he wasn’t quite so much scared at first, but ’fore it over he thought hisself dead nigger, shore. Where were all his neighbors? Dey’d all done gone, sence dey got so badly whipped, and nebber cum back. Reckoned some on ’em lost mighty fine farms heah by it.