But it was the tug of Saturday evening, and through the night and Sunday morning, I wanted to make a special note of. It was largely in the woods, and quite a general engagement. The night was very pleasant, at times the moon shining out full and clear, all Nature so calm in itself, the early summer grass so rich, and foliage of the trees--yet there the battle raging, and many good fellows lying helpless, with new accessions to them, and every minute amid the rattle of muskets and crash of cannon, (for there was an artillery contest too,) the red life-blood oozing out from heads or trunks or limbs upon that green and dew-cool grass. Patches of the woods take fire, and several of the wounded, unable to move, are consumed--quite large spaces are swept over, burning the dead also--some of the men have their hair and beards singed--some, burns on their faces and hands--others holes burnt in their clothing. The flashes of fire from the cannon, the quick flaring flames and smoke, and the immense roar--the musketry so general, the light nearly bright enough for each side to see the other--the crashing, tramping of men--the yelling--close quarters--we hear the secesh yells--our men cheer loudly back, especially if Hooker is in sight--hand to hand conflicts, each side stands up to it, brave, determin'd as demons, they often charge upon us--a thousand deeds are done worth to write newer greater poems on--and still the woods on fire--still many are not only scorch'd--too many, unable to move, are burned to death.