Much has been recently said and written about the resources of the nation in the event of war, the fighting capacity of our army and navy, and the character of recruits who would constitute the new army that must be speedily organized should a conflict result from present complications. The valor of the veterans who participated in our civil war has been often dwelt on, but nowhere have I seen any calculation based on the intrepidity and wild courage of the small boy--an element that constitutes a more important factor in every successful campaign than most people imagine. Literature is full of accounts of the small boy at school and at play. Humorists have depicted his weaknesses, his mischievous proclivities, and volunteer poets have made him the victim of rhyming obituaries. Dickens has painted him in pathetic colors, Thackeray has alternately satirized and sympathized with him, and Hughes has described him in his character of friend and fighter. None of his peculiarities has escaped detection. His disappointments have been ridiculed, his triumphs belittled; nor have even his sorrows been held sacred from the rude analysis and heartless ridicule of maturer and more conceited minds. While asleep the pockets of his little pants have been invaded, and their curious collections exposed to excite merriment. If he wears his cap-brim backward, smuts his face with sooty fingers or marks the progress of the season with fruit stains on his clothes, whistles from the gallery of the theatre, guys the actors, projects spiral play-bills on the spectators below, tortures the house cat, fights chickens in out-of-the-way places, or burglarizes his sister's safety bank of its pennies, he is condemned and often lashed. And these are penalties he pays for existence outside of the school-room. His life there is one of continued anxiety and peril. But this part of his history has been over and over narrated. My purpose is to give some account of the small boy on the battle-field--not in the petty conflicts that occur on the play-ground, but in the fiercer and bloodier clash of arms, where the very souls of grown men were tried, and where they were oftener found wanting than the small boy. After Julius Cæsar had conquered Gaul, Britain, and Egypt, and had even overcome the great Pompey at Pharsalia, he found a victory over Pompey's two sons, mere lads, in Spain, a very different enterprise. Encountering them at the great battle of Munda, his army was about to yield before their intrepid leadership, when he rushed among his men, exclaiming, "Will you deliver me into the hands of boys?" He afterwards said he had often fought for victory, but it was the first time he had fought for his life.