I was awakened by martial music in full blast. I dressed myself and sallied out. A broad beam of the newly risen sun had settled like a yellow pool just in front of Wiggins’s tavern, and standing within it, were the three worthies who had awakened the Monticello echoes the evening before with their music from the wagon. The fifer was again spitting his breath most industriously into his “whistle,” as the boys called it, and keeping time with his foot, the drummer, who had a way of looking down upon his drum, and working his mouth to the motion of his sticks, was sending out his rattling tones by his side, and facing the two, with his shoulders drawn back, and supporting his instrument on his breast, the bass-drummer was bringing down his leathered knobs this time to the music, (he had only had two morning bitters, so Wiggins said,) but with such a terrific noise as to make even himself wince at every stroke. There was quite a collection of men around the “musicianers;” several with brown cartridge-boxes and bayonet-sheaths, and one or two with gilt eagles in their hats, and plumes of white feathers, whilst one fellow was equipped with an old straw hat, the rim of which was shorn away at his forehead—a red flannel shirt, linsey-woolsey pantaloons, and a long, heavy rifle on his shoulder. This genius was fairly wrapped up in the music. He was evidently enchanted. Now he would listen with his mouth wide open, then he would look around the group and nod, as if to say, “_isn’t_ that fine!” and then he would give birth to laughter, as though he couldn’t restrain himself any longer for the life of him. Interspersed amidst this group were many of the village boys, edging their way at every practicable point nearer the musicians. One youngster, ragged as a saw, had succeeded in placing himself by the tenor drum, and was looking at the double performance of mouth and sticks, with the greatest admiration, whilst another, with open elbows and slouched hat, which was only prevented by a bulge in front from sliding entirely over his dirty face, was peering up into the twitching countenance of the bass-drummer, standing the thunder of the blows with all the nonchalance of a real veteran.