laborer that had just gone over into a field of clover. The troops dashed out upon a blue-grass plane, jeweled here and there with the rich setting of a long-cared-for and magnificent tree. Over the brow of a green slope--the phrenological bump of perception on the face of the landscape--the enemy was seen advancing. It was to be a cavalry fight. It was to be a shock of horse and a clash of sabre. I looked to the right and saw that our men were stretched out in a long line, and looking ahead, I saw that the enemy was in similar form. My friend blew his bugle. Every horse dashed forward. A line of blue dashed to meet us. I felt a keen sense of delight. My friend blew his bugle. Clash! The two lines had met with drawn sabres. It was a beautiful sight. Not a shot had been fired. There was no dust. Clash! Far to the right, as the sabres flashed, there were two long lines of brightness, broken into whirling glints of sun-ray-catching silver. I may not have had the spirit of a poet, but the beauty and not the horror impressed me. I lost not an adjunct--I failed not to catch a single shading. I saw a bee-martin catch a bee; I saw an ironweed bend its purple head beneath the touch of a lark; I saw a man, with his skull split open fall to the ground. My friend blew his bugle. The horses leaped forward. The line of blue began to grow ragged. Wild shouts arose. Gunshots with, it seemed to me, intruding noise like the yap, yap, yap of a stray dog, rang out here and there. The enemy was retreating. My friend, standing in his stirrups, waved his bugle high in the air and then blew upon it a triumphant blast. The enemy made a stand, and again the sabres flashed, but the old wine and new whisky made the Confederates impetuous. My friend blew his bugle. The opposing line broke, and then there came gunshots with, it seemed to me, a sort of revengful bark. My friend lifted his bugle, but did not blow it. I thought that he had taken pity upon the vanquished line. We bounded forward. My friend began to lean back against me. He was laughing, I could plainly see. He leaned back farther. 'Don't lean back so far,' I said. 'Stop; don't you see you are about to shove me off?' He leaned back farther. I moved to one side--reached around and took hold of the horn of the saddle. Blood spurted from the bugler's breast. I looked up and saw that death had thrown its film into his eyes. I reached down with my foot and kicked the stirrup away. The bugler leaned over and fell to the ground. I got into the saddle, rode up to a fence, threw the bridle rein over a stake, climbed down off the horse and ran away. I went back over the grassy slope. I saw a martin catch a bee; I saw the purple head of the ironweed bend beneath the touch of the lark." IN THE CUMBERLAND MOUNTAINS.