Among the rough exteriors which campaigning gives, two officers of the Second were remarkable for their neat appearance. Some jokes were made at their expense, calling them the dandies of the regiment, and their state-rooms the band-boxes; and it was agreed that they were too handsome to be spoilt by scars. Two days afterward one of these, Captain Sleighmaker, fell at the head of his company, heroically charging the rebel breastworks. A little later, as I was galloping for the surgeons, I passed a wounded officer, borne by four soldiers in a blanket. As I rode by he called out, "We have carried the day, Captain." I looked around and saw it was the other, Major Chipman. "Are you badly hurt, Major?" I said, pulling up my horse. "No, not badly," he answered. "Don't stop for me;" and when the surgeon arrived he refused to have his wound dressed, and sent him to his men. In the afternoon we overtook twenty steamboats laden with troops, and led by four black gunboats. They moved slowly and kept together, as if they feared approaching danger. Then came a change of weather, and night closed in upon us, dark and dreary, with cold and snow. When the next morning broke I found we had made fast to the western shore. On either bank were high and wooded hills. The gunboats lay anchored in the middle of the stream, all signs of life hidden beneath their dark decks, save the white steam that slowly issued from their pipes, and floated gracefully away. Far down the river could be seen the troop-laden transports, moored to the trees along the bank. The sky was clear and bright; the forest sparkled with snow, and the warm waters of the river smoked in the frosty air. Such a picture I have never seen--never shall see again. As the troops began to debark, the band of the Second Iowa came out on the upper deck, and the dear "Star-spangled" echoed along the river. The men beat time, and hurrahed as the notes died away.