But what the chaplain talked to me about, was his discovery, at a village not far from Winchester, of a new "PICCIOLA." It was a Sergeant old and gray, Well singed and bronzed from siege and pillage, Went tramping in an army's wake, Along the turnpike of the village. For days and nights the winding host Had through the little place been marching, And ever loud the rustics cheered, 'Till ev'ry throat was hoarse and parching. The Squire and Farmer, maid and dame, All took the sight's electric stirring, And hats were waved and staves were sung, And kerchiefs white were countless whirring. They only saw a gallant show Of heroes stalwart under banners, And in the fierce heroic glow, 'Twas theirs to yield but wild hosannahs The Sergeant heard the shrill hurrahs, Where he behind in step was keeping; But glancing down beside the road He saw a little maid sit weeping. "And how is this?" he gruffly said, A moment pausing to regard her;-- "Why weepest thou, my little chit?"-- And then she only cried the harder. "And how is this, my little chit?" The sturdy trooper straight repeated, "When all the village cheers us on, That you, in tears, apart are seated? "We march two hundred thousand strong! And that's a sight, my baby beauty, To quicken silence into song And glorify the soldier's duty." "It's very, very grand, I know," The little maid gave soft replying; "And Father, Mother, Brother too, All say 'Hurrah' while I am crying; "But think--O Mr. Soldier, think, How many little sisters' brothers Are going all away to fight And may be _killed_, as well as others!" "Why bless thee, child," the Sergeant said, His brawny hands her curls caressing, "'Tis left for little ones like you To find that War's not all a blessing." And "Bless thee!" once again he cried; Then cleared his throat and looked indignant, And marched away with wrinkled brow To stop the struggling tear benignant. And still the ringing shouts went up From doorway, thatch, and fields of tillage; The pall behind the standard seen By one alone, of all the village. The oak and cedar bend and writhe When roars the wind through gap and braken; But 'tis the tenderest reed of all That trembles first when Earth is shaken. It is with infinite satisfaction, my boy, that I record the recognition of Commodore Head's priceless services on Duck Lake by the Secretary of the Navy. Our grim old son of Neptune is created Rear-Admiral, with the privilege of snubbing gunboat captains, receiving serenades, attending launches, and lavishing untold scorn upon the feeble imitations of affrighted Europe. Hence, there would appear to be an imperative demand in current literature for an authoritative SKETCH OF COMMODORE HEAD.