That seemed strangely applicable to the situation at the time. The memory of our great victories was all that was left to us; and I thought that it was the spirit of grief itself that was singing. Again I hear the notes--but “Nora McShane” breaks in--“Nora McShane,” the most exquisite of all Gray’s songs. Then he winds up with uproarious praise of the “Bully Lager Beer!”--and the long hours of night flit away on the wings of laughter, as birds dart onward, and are buried in the night. Are you there still, Gray? Do you sing still, Woodie? Health and happiness, comrades! All friendly stars smile on you! Across the years and the long leagues that divide us, I salute you! Thus, at Staunton and Lynchburg, reader, gay scenes broke the monotony. In my journey toward North Carolina, I found food also, for laughter. I had gone to Hicksford, fifty miles south of Petersburg, to inspect the cavalry; and in riding on, I looked with curiosity on the desolation which the enemy had wrought along the Weldon railroad, when they had destroyed it in the month of December. Stations, private houses, barns, stables, all were black and charred ruins. The railroad was a spectacle. The enemy had formed line of battle close along the track; then, at the signal, this line of battle had attacked the road. The iron rails were torn from the sleepers; the latter were then piled up and fired; the rails were placed upon the blazing mass, and left there until they became red-hot in the middle, and both ends bent down--then they had been seized, broken, twisted; in a wild spirit of sport the men had borne some of the heated rails to trees near the road; twisted them three or four times around the trunks; and there, as I passed, were the unfortunate trees with their iron boa-constrictors around them--monuments of the playful humor of the blue people, months before. Hill and Hampton had attacked and driven them back; from the dead horses, as elsewhere, rose the black vultures on flapping wings: but it is no part of my purpose, reader, to weary you with these war-pictures, or describe disagreeable scenes. It is an odd interview which I had on my return toward Petersburg that my memory recalls. It has naught to do with my narrative--but then it will not fill more than a page! I had encountered two wagons, and, riding, ahead of them, saw a courier of army head-quarters, whose name was Ashe. I saluted the smiling youth, in return for his own salute, and said:-- “Where have you been, Ashe?” “To Sussex, colonel, on a foraging expedition.” “For the general?” “And some of the staff, colonel.” Ashe smiled; we rode on together. “How did you come to be a forager, Ashe?” I said.