for my own men, and go down with the widow's eldest son, who is a lad of fifteen, to get the meal and view the mill--a tiny little affair, and two of the men, who are millers, laugh when they see it. On coming back to the house, I find a group of the men have made themselves quite agreeable. They have come from the city, and doubtless are more refined and polished than any men these country girls have seen before. The youngest is some ten years old, named Martha, and I ask her if she is not afraid of us Northern mercenaries. Martha says no! and laughs at the idea; but when I ask her if we have not been called all sorts of names, and if she has not been told that we would burn her mother's house down, and cut her head off, Martha blushes, and the older sisters look confused. It is evident that we have had a very bad name here, and that they are now ashamed to own it. But we have a long circuit to make; the meal is stowed away in the haversacks; Widow Williams invites us to call again, and assures us we shall be welcome; I pretend to arrest Martha, and carry her off as prisoner; at which she is a little frightened and the rest a good deal amused; and then "fall in," "mount," "march," and off we go. Gipsy is the smallest horse in the regiment, but to-day her feelings have been immense. She has borne herself as much like Gen. Washington's great charger as possible, and has champed the bit more fiercely and pranced more proudly than even he did. Her front is white with foam, and every look shows that she deems the head of the column her proper place. Whenever any horse has come within a respectful distance, Gipsy's heels have flown higher than his head, admonishing him, that whatever happens, she must be first. But the road, which has followed the bank, now crosses the brook. There is no friendly bridge to lift us over--the road leads down the bank, straight into the water. That water is wider than Sixth Avenue, and the recent rain has made it a roaring torrent--no one knows how deep, and it splashes and dashes fearfully. Gipsy looks up--looks down; no narrow place appears for her to bound over. Half of her airs and graces drop off at the sight. She hesitates a moment--the tramp of the horses behind tells her that she must decide quickly. She screws her courage up, and marches heroically down the bank. The first plunge, and the water dashes up on her breast--it is a foot higher on one side than the other, so swift is the current. It is cold and very wet--it roars louder than ever, and who can tell how deep it is ahead. Poor Gipsy! the last of the airs and graces are gone; so is her resolution. She wheels ingloriously round, and throws herself submissively behind the leading sergeant's horse. Him she follows meekly through the stream; on the other side, she continues so for a few yards; then she steals a glance ahead. There is no more water with its horrid noise in sight. She gives a slight champ on the bit, and moves up beside the sergeant's horse.