It was a deadly fray. _Rang tang bang, paoufff!_ We fought as if it had been a Sixth Ward election. Suddingly I found myself amid a swarm of my country's foes. Sabres slashed at me, and in my rage I determined to exterminate something. Looking around from mere force of habit to see that there were no police about, I drew my revolver and aimed at JIM MARRYGOLD of Charleston, whom I had last seen owling it in New Orleans, four years ago. He and DICK MIDDLETONGUE of Natchez (who carved the Butcher's Daughter at Florence, and who is now a Secesh major), came down with their cheese knives, evidently intending to carve _me_. Such language you never heard, such a diluvium of profanity, such double-shotted d--ns! I drew my pistol _at once_, and gave Dick a blizzard. The ball went through his ear--the red pepper took his eyes, while Jim received the shot in his hat, and with it the sweet oil. In this sweet state of affairs, CHARLEY RUFFEM of Savannah was descending on me with his sabre. (He was the man who said my browns were all put in with guano.) I put him out of the way of criticism with a _third_ barrel--killed him _dead_, and _salted_ him. The best of this war is, it enables me to exterminate so many _bad artists_. The worst of it is that Charley owed me five dollars. A fifth Secesh now made his appearance. We went it on the sword, and fought--for further particulars see Ivanhoe, volume second. My foe was RAWLEY CHIVERS, of Tuscumbia, Ala., and as the mischief would have it, he knew all my guards and cuts. We used to fence together, and had had more than one trial at _'fertig-los!'_ on the old _Pauk-boden_ in Heidelberg. 'POP!' said he on the seventeenth round, 'are we going to chop all day?' 'CHIV,' said I, as I drew my castor, '_are you ready_?' 'Ready,' quoth he, effecting the same manoeuvre--'_one_, _two_, _three_.' I scratched his cheek, but the mustard settled him. Sputter--p'l'z'z'z--how he swore! I went at him with both hands. '_Priz?_' I cried. 'Priz it is,' he answered. So I took him off as a priz. He was very glad to go too, for he hadn't had a dinner for six weeks, and would have made a fine study for a Murillo beggar so ar as rags went. I punish my men whenever I catch them foraging. Punish them by confiscation. Mild as I am by nature, I never allow them to keep stolen provisions--when I am hungry. Yesterday evening I detected a vast German private with a colossal bull-turkey. 'Lay it down _there_, sir!' I exclaimed fiercely--indicating the floor of my tent as the bank of deposit. 'But den when I leafs it you eats de toorky up!' he exclaimed in sorrowful remonstrance. 'Yes,' I replied, like a Roman. 'Yes--I may _eat_ it--but,' I added in tones of high moral conscientiousness, 'remember that I didn't STEAL it!' He went forth abashed. No more till it is eaten, from Yours truly, POPPY OYLE. * * * * * We are indebted to a Philadelphia correspondent for the following: