It was rather a strange coincidence that Colonel Rosenthal’s last engagement, in which he was wounded and taken prisoner, had been in a charge upon Wade Hampton’s cavalry, and that his first encounter on rejoining his regiment should be with the same brave foe. But such were the facts, for— They had advanced but a little way beyond Ream’s Station, on the Dinwiddie Court House Road, when they were met by Wade Hampton’s cavalry, with whom they had a fierce contest for the right of way, before they could pass. But again they were victorious, and rushed onward like a whirlwind towards Dinwiddie Court House, encountering and overwhelming the enemy at every post along the road. The other divisions advanced by adjacent roads running in the same general direction, battling every mile of the way. But the great battle was fought on Monday, the sixth of February, at Hatcher’s Run, a deep stream passing through a nearly pathless wilderness, broken into fearful ravines, stagnant marshes, and heavy woods—a locality new to our soldiers, but perfectly familiar to the enemy. Here, at length, the farther advance of our army was for the time effectually checked. A battle was commenced early in the day, and gradually increased in violence, until at nightfall it raged with tremendous fury. Gregg’s division of cavalry, and Warren’s and Humphrey’s corps, were all engaged. Again and again they pressed forward under a pelting shower of bullets, that fell thick, fast and blinding as a hailstorm, and again and again they were driven back, fighting desperately behind rocks, stumps and trees. So often they fought over the same ground, that the woods and marshes were strewn thickly with the dead and dying of both armies, in an undistinguishable confusion. The circumstances were very discouraging to brave men, but very favorable to skulkers; and unluckily there _were_ skulkers in that heroic army, but they were mostly to be found among the raw recruits—soft metal—that had not yet been hardened in the fires of an hundred battles. From time to time staff officers were sent out, like whippers-in of hounds, to hunt up these heroes and hurry them to their line. Major Mim, being an active, energetic little fellow, was dispatched on just such a duty. In the course of his ride through the wilderness, he came upon Billingcoo lurking in a thicket. “Get up and go to your company, sir,” said Mim. “Oh, I can’t! I can’t, indeed! Hear how the thots are cracking and thnapping about! And look how the men are dropping! Oh, the poor fellowth! oh, the poor, dear fellowth!” whimpered Billingcoo. “For shame, sir! Get up, and go and help the ‘poor fellowths’ you profess to feel so much sympathy for,” said Mim. “I can’t! indeed I can’t! The bulleth hurt! they do indeed, Mathor! And the Rebelth fire without the thlighteth regard to a man’s life! Oh, look how they are falling! Oh, poor fellowth! oh, the poor, poor fellowth!” howled Billingcoo.