been toiling on to be in time. Aides were galloping furiously now among the scattered commands. The obscuring fog slowly rose from off the face of the valley, but all the central portion remained veiled from view. Suddenly, as I watched, the brown cloud beneath me was rent asunder here and there by little spits of fire, and it was curious to observe how those quick, spiteful darts of flame swept the full length of my vista. I could distinguish no reports,--it was too far away,--but realized that the opposing pickets had caught sight of each other through the gloom. Then a big gun boomed almost directly opposite me, its flame seeming like a red-hot knife rending the mist. This had barely vanished when a sudden cheer rang out upon my left, and I turned in time to behold a thin, scattered line of gray-clad infantrymen swarm down the steep slope into the valley. With hats drawn low, and guns advanced, they plunged at a run into the mist and disappeared. Our skirmishers had gone in; the ball had opened. I had tarried long enough; any moment now might bring “boots and saddles,” and if I possessed the slightest desire for a breakfast to fight on, it behooved me to get back within our lines. The memory of that animated scene in front still fresh upon me, how quiet and commonplace everything appeared down there in the hill shadow. No one would have dreamed it to be a battle-line. The fires crackled gayly, while the men lounged about them, smoking or eating. There was no sound save the gentle rustling of leaves overhead, or the light laughter of some group of story-tellers. Horses munched their grain just at our rear, and now and then some careful trooper sauntered back to make sure his mount was not neglected. One or two of the men were cleaning their revolvers, and an old corporal was polishing his sabre where a spot of rust disfigured its gleaming blade. You might have dreamed it a picnic, a military review, possibly, were it not for the travel-soiled and ragged uniforms, but a line held there for the stern purpose of deadly conflict--it scarcely seemed credible. “Captain,” said a white-faced lad of seventeen, as I sat down on the ground to my coffee and corn bread, “did you see anything of the blue-bellies out there?” “Plenty of them, my boy,” I answered, noting the curls that clustered upon his forehead, and wondering what mother prayed for him. “We have plenty of hot work cut out for us to-day.” “I hope they'll give us a charge before it's all over.” His blue eyes danced as he strode off, whistling gayly. “What has become of Bungay?” I questioned of Colgate, who was lying upon his back with eyes fastened on a floating cloud. “Do you mean the little mountaineer who came in with us last night?” I nodded. “Oh, his mule bolted at the first shot over yonder, and the little fellow is after it. He's down the field there somewhere.”