Amidst this desolation I first saw the little hero of whom I write. I had been with the rear-guard of the division, and was approaching Alhandra, when I observed four or five men standing on a ridge, in the valley through which we were passing. One of them ran towards me, and said that there was a man lying under a tree a little way off the road, beside a stream, and that he was dying. A staff-surgeon was close by; I told him the circumstance, and we immediately proceeded to the spot. There we beheld a soldier lying upon his back, his head resting against a bank, his cap beside him and filled with water as if he had been drinking out of it. Beside the man sat a fine boy, of about three years' old, his little arms stretched across him. The child looked wistfully at us. We asked him what he was doing there? but, from fright and perhaps confusion at seeing us all intent upon questioning him he only burst into tears. The surgeon examined the man, and found he was lifeless, but still warm. I asked the child, if the man was his father? he said he was; but to any further questions he could only lisp an unintelligible answer. The surgeon thought the man had died of fatigue, probably from marching while under great debility or sickness. I asked the boy, if he had walked with his father that day? and he replied, that he did not, but had been carried by him. At this moment the last of the division was passing up the hill, and the French columns appeared about half a mile behind. There was nothing to be done but to remove the child, and leave the dead man as he was. I directed the soldiers to do so, and to bring him along with them. They accordingly went over to the boy, to take him away from the body; but he cried out, while tears rolled from his eyes, “_No, no! me stay wi' daddy!—me stay wi' daddy!_” and clung his little arms about the dead soldier with a determined grasp. The men looked at each other; we were all affected in the same way; I could see the tears in the hardy fellows' eyes. They caressed him; they promised that his father should go also; but no, the little affectionate creature could not be persuaded to quit his hold. Force was necessary; the men drew him away from the body; but the child's cries were heart-rending: “_Daddy! daddy! daddy! dear, dear, daddy!_” Thus he called and cried, while the men, endeavouring to sooth him, bore him up the hill just as the enemy were entering the valley. This was little Johnny, and the dead man was his father's kind, good-hearted comrade, who perhaps hastened his own death in carrying the beloved little orphan. NIGHTS IN THE GUARD-HOUSE. No. I. “See yonder, round a many-colour'd flame, A merry club is huddled all together; Even with such little people as sit there One would not be alone.” GOËTHE. “Who goes there?” “Rounds.” “What rounds?”