The Sixty-fifth marched on upon a sunshiny road, beneath blue sky, between crimson-fruited cherry trees. Beyond swelled the green and gold countryside, so peaceful.... Butterflies fluttered, honeybees hummed, birds warbled. Dinner was good meat and wheaten bread, taken in cheerful meadows, beneath elms and poplars. Village and farmer people showed themselves not tremendously hostile. Small boys gathered, happy and excited; Dutch farmers, anxiety for their red barns appeased, glowered not overmuch. Women were stiffer and took occasion to hum or sing aloud patriotic Northern songs. Southerners are a polite people, and the women of the Cumberland Valley met with no rudeness. At a cross-roads, the Sixty-fifth passing with jingle and tramp, a Pennsylvania carriage horse, that had never snuffed the battle from afar, took fright at the grey men or the gleam of rifle barrels or the sanguine fluttering colours. Ensued a rearing and plunging, and, from the phaeton behind, a scream. Lieutenant Coffin sprang to the rescue.—The horse stood soothed, though trembling a little still. “Thar now! thar now!” said Billy Maydew at the reins. The twelve-year-old urchin in the driver’s seat glued his eyes to the marching Sixty-fifth and gasped with delight. The sprigged muslin and straw bonnet in the embrace of the phaeton made a gallant bid for the austerity of a marble monument. “You wish to cross the road, madam? Or can you wait until the column has passed?” “Oh, wait, please, sister! Golly! Look at that blue flag!” “No, I cannot wait. I wish to cross now. I am going to a funeral.” The last of the Sixty-fifth passed with jingle and tramp. The Fourth was seen looming through the mist. Sergeant Maydew at the horse’s head, Lieutenant Coffin beside the phaeton—across the highroad was conducted straw bonnet and sprigged muslin. The two soldiers stood back, Lieutenant Coffin making a courtly bow. It was answered by a stately inclination of the bonnet. The boy reluctantly said, “Get up!” to the horse, and the phaeton slowly climbed a flowery hill. The lieutenant and the sergeant strode after their regiment. “She was mighty sweet and fine!” volunteered Billy. “I like that dark, soft kind, like pansies. I’ll tell you who I think she air like. She air like Miss Miriam Cleave at Three Oaks.” Coffin considered. “I see what you mean. They are a little alike.... Three Oaks!” “I used to think,” said Billy, “that I’d be right happy if I could kill you. That was before Port Republic. Then I used to think I’d be right happy when Allan Gold had beat spelling into me and I’d be made sergeant. And after Chancellorsville I thought I’d be right happy if General Jackson got well. But I’ve thought right along, ever since White Oak Swamp, that I’d be right happy if the Sixty-fifth had back the only colonel I’ve ever cared much for, and that air Richard Cleave!”