But while I am telling you this we have come out on the Paris road, and have turned toward the Holly Fork. The causeway and the bridge are unchanged, and the little store is still empty and open. We reach the cross-road, on the top of the hill, and then turn to the right. This leaf-covered road leads through tall woods and secluded farms. We see no one in the wide-spreading fields, nor about the distant farm-houses: they might be thought deserted but for the smoke that lazily rises and floats away. At one little wayside cabin the owner asks us, in the usual phrase, to "alight." There are many old English words and phrases among this people--some odd and obsolete, and some better and more correct than our own. Thus, for our awkward "get down," they have "alight." Instead of saying, "How early did you _get up_ this morning?" they would say, "How early did you _arise_?" Relations, relatives, and connections they call _kinfolk_; and these are never well _dressed_, but well _clad_. A _horse-path_ is known as a _bridle-road_; a _brook_ as a _branch_, and a _stream_ as a _fork_. One man complimented Bischoff by saying he was the most _chirk_ young fellow in the regiment; and a young lady praised her own horse by telling me that Gipsy might run fast, but she couldn't _tote_ double. But two or three miles down this road we come to a gate, on which three little contrabands hang, grinning. Very quickly they drop down and swing open the gate; and very glad they are to see us, whatever missus may be. Within this gate is a fine open grove, and through it are seen a small timber house, some contraband cabins, and a barn or two. We have heard of this house before. It belongs to a Lieutenant Reynolds of the rebel service, and was selected, before we started, as a good stopping-place. In one of the cabins we find a young mulatto woman, whose sad, intelligent face awakens more than usual respect. "Is Mrs. Reynolds at home?" I ask. "No, sir, she's at her mother's." "Are you alone here?" "There's a man a ploughing, sir, out in the field there, and another girl--she's a grubbing." "Whose children are these? Yours?" "That one's mine, sir; the other two's mother is gone." "Where?" "To Memphis, I s'pose, sir. They sent her off and sold her the time your soldiers took the fort." "Will your mistress be back to-night?" "No, sir, she don't stay here nights." "Then I must trouble you to show me where your provisions are. My men have eaten up all their rations and must have supper here." Two of the men come in and go to work as cooks, and the others are in the yard, unsaddling and cleaning their horses. With one of the sergeants, I stroll out to the road. We cross it and walk a few yards, to get a view of some fields beyond. As we are looking and talking of the pickets for the coming night, in the distance, down the road, we hear a shout or two, and then a rumbling noise. "What is that, sergeant?"