"Tr-r-aitor!" shouted Captain Samyule Sa-mith, in tones of milk-souring thunder, "where is the rest of the Confederacy, and what do you think of the news from Fort Donelson?" The Confederacy hiccupped gloomily, my boy, as he took an impression of its front teeth on the sandwich, and says he: "The melancholy days are come--the saddest of the year." "That's very true," said Samyule, pleasantly, "and proves you to be a person of some eddication. But tell me, sweet hermit of the dale," pursued Samyule, "where are the oats we have heard about?" The solitary Confederacy checked a rising cough with another bite at his ration, and says he: "You have the oats already; for they were eaten last night by six Confederate chickens, and my slave, Mr. Johnson, sold them chickens to a prospecting detachment of the Mackerel Brigade this morning. Don't talk to me any more," continued the Confederacy, sadly, "for I am very miserable, and haven't seen a quarter in six months." Samyule seemed touched, and put his hand half-way into his pocket, but remembered his probable children, and refrained from romantic generosity. "Let me see Mr. Johnson," says he, reflectively, "and I will question him concerning the South." The Confederacy indulged in a plaintive cat-call, whereupon there emerged from an adjacent clump of bushes a beautiful black being, richly attired in a heavy seal-ring and a red neck-tie. It was Mr. Johnson. "You have sent for me," says Mr. Johnson, with much dignity, "and I have come. If you do not want me, I will return." "You have seen the tragic Forrest?" said Samyule. "The forest is my home," replied Mr. Johnson, "and in its equal shade my humble hut stands sacredly embowered. As the gifted Whittier might say: "There lofty trees uprear in pillared state, And crystal streams the thirsty deer elate; While through the halls that base the dome of leaves Fall sunshine-harvests spread in golden sheaves. "There toy the birds in sweet seclusion blest, To leap the branches or to build the nest, While from their throats the grateful song outpoured Wakes woodland orchestras to praise the Lord. "There walks the wolf, no longer driven wild By panting hounds and huntsman blood-defiled; But tamed to kindness, seeketh peacefully The soothing shelter of a hollow tree. "Who would be free, and tow'r above his race, In the full freedom spurning man and place, Deep in the forest let him rear his clan Where God himself stands face to face with man." Just as the oppressed African finished this rhythmical statement of his platform, my boy, a huge horse-fly, alighting on the nose of Captain Samyule Sa-mith, awoke that hero from the refreshing slumber into which he had fallen. "Tell me, Johnson," says he, "how you got your eddication, for I thought that persons from Afric's sunny mountain went to school about as often as a cat goes to sea."