Late that afternoon we started out on the “pike” in the direction of Fairfax court house and were rushed along at a lively gait until nearly midnight. The men were young and light hearted, and as we marched there was the rollicking laugh, sharp joke, equally as keen a retort, queer and humorous sayings, breaking out from the ranks here and there, and then all would sing, “John Brown’s Body” and “We’ll Hang Jeff Davis to a Sour Apple Tree.” We halted that night near a little place called Accotink and bivouacked in a large open field, and I recall how quickly the rail fences were converted into huge camp fires, for the Virginia nights are nearly always chilly. The march was resumed early the next morning and the day was a hot one. The most aggravating thing to the soldiers on a march is the unevenness of the marching. First you are rushed along so that the short legged ones are compelled to double-quick to keep up, and then there will be a halt of perhaps fifteen to thirty minutes when you are kept standing in the broiling sun; then start again and stop five minutes later. It struck me as funny that not one person in ten you met in the country knew anything about distances. If you met a colored man and asked how far it was to Manassas he would reply “’Deed, boss, I don’t know, ’spec ’tis a right smart distance.” Another would say it was eight miles, and after going a mile or two you would ask again and would be told it was ten miles and a “bit.” NOTHING LIKE HARDTACK. I found on the second day’s march that the sutler’s “goodies” which I had stocked up with had absorbed a little too much of the flavor of my haversack to be palatable, so I returned to Uncle Sam’s ration of hardtack, salt junk and coffee, which cannot be beaten for a steady diet when campaigning. We halted for a rest that noon near a beautiful old mansion between Fairfax and Centreville. The boys made themselves pretty free with whatever they wanted around the premises, notwithstanding the protests of the women of the household, one of whom observed that “you’uns think you are right smart now, but if Stonewall Jackson catches you he’ll lick you so you won’t be so peart the next time you come this way.” We little thought the prediction would come true in a brief twenty-four hours, but such was the case and when hot, tired and choking with thirst and dust, we stopped at the same place the next afternoon, thinking to refresh ourselves with some sparkling water from the “moss covered bucket that hung in the well,” we found that it, and in fact all of the appliances for drawing water had been removed, and, looking back from this distance, I think they served us right. THE SECOND BULL RUN.