We rode rapidly along the wooded ridges. The fading daylight told us that the sun had set behind his cloudy screen, and when we reached the main road, there was light enough to show dimly the trail turning toward Paris. In this cavalry service, one becomes so attached to his constant companions by day and by night, that you must forgive me for describing mine. Bischoff's horse is a beautiful sorrel blood, high spirited, yet quiet and gentle as a lamb. My own horse is a prisoner from Fort Donelson. On the eventful Sunday morning, I found him tied in a yard, near where General Floyd took to his boat, and have no doubt he was left by the runaway part of the garrison. At first I was rather disposed not to buy him from the government, and it was more the desire to retain a trophy of Fort Donelson, than his merits, that decided the question. He is a fine Kentucky blood, but had too many Southern traits—snorting when there was nothing to snort at, quiet when alone, but full of fuss when anybody was by, and, once, seceding from the smooth and travelled way, only to be brought back by a good thrashing, which, indeed, was the basis of our good understanding. But in this Paris journey, his Arabian blood atoned for his Southern education. It was refreshing to feel these high bred horses rousing themselves for their new march, as though it were the beginning of a new day, breaking into a gallop wherever the road allowed, and dashing along without word or spur as though just out of the stable.

On the summit of a long hill is a farm house, and as we thus approached it on a gallop, I saw a group of men, and rows of cavalry horses tied to the fences. For a moment I thought my pursuit was over, but a closer glance through the dim twilight told me these were too few for the squadron—it was the picket guard taking their last rest before going out on their posts for the night. "Your men are about two miles ahead of you, captain," said the officer of the picket, and we rode on. As we descended the next hill, the last glimmer of daylight left us, and the darkness of a gloomy, cloudy night shrouded the road. I had been riding rapidly while the daylight lasted, but so had the squadron. Ordinarily, there would have been a halt before this, to re-adjust saddles and examine pistols, but it was now evident that while I was making every exertion to overtake them, they were making every exertion to meet me. I knew their orders must have been to proceed till they should meet me, and I could imagine that they supposed I was alone at the bridge, and were urging their horses to my relief. "Confound that blockhead," I was inclined to mutter; but there was no help for his blunder, save to hurry on.

A couple of miles beyond the picket guard, the road descends into a dreary swamp. It seems too dreary for any creature to live in; bushes and trees have died, and the tall, spectral trunks stand, like ghosts of a departed forest. Deep holes and fallen trees had made the crossing no easy task in daytime, and I now approached it with some misgivings, and many wishes that we were well over.

Tennessee led bravely down the bank, on a trot, crossing the rickety bridge and plunging into the submerged road, without abating his speed. Here Bischoff fell behind. His beautiful Ida had galloped since we turned back, as though running a race; but this was a slough of despond, through which she had to pick her way with care. The instinct of my horse was wonderful. Too dark for me to guide him, I threw the reins on his neck and trusted everything to him. With his head stretched out, he crossed and re-crossed the invisible road, avoiding its dangers, as it seemed to me, by precisely the same path he had picked out by daylight. Several times branches dashed in my face, and once my cap was nearly swept off; but with no other mishaps, I found we were approaching the opposite bank, and soon felt his tread again on firm ground. I stopped for a moment and listened, but could hear nothing of the squadron before, or of Bischoff behind. I was alone with my good horse. Yet, as I reached the top of the next hill, I was greeted with a cheering sound—for from a house in the distance came the yelps of its half dozen dogs, and in a moment the yelp was repeated from the house beyond. I knew then where my men were. At the same time, Tennessee, who had been disposed to linger for Ida, started forward, showing that by sight, or sound, or smell, he recognized his friends ahead, and was greatly disposed to try whether they were fresher than he. The swamp had brought the squadron to a walk, and, for a few moments, to a halt; and it was these few moments of delay that had enabled me to close up the distance between us.

As I approached, I was somewhat soothed, to find the men were deserving a very big mark in "deportment!" No sound came from the silent column, save the trampling of the horses and the clanking of the sabres. A night march in an enemy's country requires secrecy, and the ordinary recreation of talk and song then has to be laid aside. I was now close upon them, and, stealing up to the rearmost man, I announced myself by the command, "Column—halt." The long line of horses stopped. Habit is a strong master. The unexpected command, coming from the rear, and in the darkness, was obeyed as promptly as on parade. There was some surprise, a few questions and explanations, a few minutes' rest (during which Bischoff arrived), a general unslinging of canteens, and a great drinking of water; and then we pushed forward to finish the ten miles which lay between us and the Holly Fork.

It was not so late but that the eyes of many little folk I know were then open. Yet with the Tennesseans it is early to bed and early to rise (though truth compels me to add, they are neither healthy, wealthy, nor wise), and every house was as still and dark as though it were midnight. That morning in Paris, I had observed the shutters upon the shops. It puzzled me at first; then I whispered to the sergeant, "Is this Sunday?" and he answered, "I really believe it is." This was indeed Sunday evening! and yet I could hardly bring myself to believe that at the same hour, and while we were passing these lightless houses, whose undisturbed inmates slept, unconscious that their dreaded enemies were passing before their doors, in New York, the evening churches were not yet out, and the great city was probably more wide awake than at any other time of the preceding day. It was a contrast, too, those crowded streets and this lonely road.

At last I recognized the houses near the Fork. On the top of the hill, which overlooks the bridge, a cross road runs parallel to the brook. The road then descends the hill, and is earned, upon a long and narrow causeway, to the bridge. A second causeway leads to the opposite bank, and on this bank a timber tobacco-barn commands the road, beyond. We were then within seven miles of Paris, where six hundred of King's cavalry had been but two days before. It was possible they had returned—possible, indeed, that the Memphis railroad had brought up five thousand troops since I left there in the morning. I halted, therefore, a moment for preparation. The fourth (being the last) platoon was ordered to stop at the cross-road, and guard against our being surprised in the rear. With the remaining three I descended the hill. The second and third stayed at the beginning of the causeway, and the first, under command of the second-lieutenant, was ordered to cross the bridge, and take possession of the tobacco-barn on the bank.

A dense wood covers the bridge and the causeway; and the beautiful evergreen that gives its name to the stream, added much to the darkness of the night; so much that the road looked almost like the entrance of a cavern, the branches overarching above, and shading the dark passage-way below. Into this woodland tunnel the first platoon slowly rode. We watched them as they disappeared, and then listened to the sound of their horses rumbling and clattering on the bridge. In a minute more they had crossed; and then, about as long as it would reasonably take to give an alarm, there came, or seemed to come, from the other side, perhaps half a mile distant, the long roll of a drum. I was at the head of the column, and heard it distinctly; and the men behind me instantly whispered, "There's a drum." Our immediate inference was that the enemy were on the other side, and, hearing our horses trampling on the bridge, were beating to arms. Thinking it would not do to crowd more troops on the narrow causeway until the first platoon had gained the opposite bank, I ordered them to follow if I fired my pistol, and rode forward to join the first. The galloping of my horse roused the bull-frogs, and they bellowed so loudly that I thought I might hereafter believe the stories often told of their frightening armies into a retreat. But above them came, from different points, five or six hideous half-human yells, as though sentinels were giving signals of our approach. They were, however, too near and too irregular for that, and evidently came from the trees; so that I quickly concluded that some night birds were the callers, and afterward ascertained them to be a species of Southern owl. In less time than I am writing this I had crossed, and found the platoon quietly examining the tobacco-barn. I asked about the drum. They had not heard it, and stoutly insisted there could have been none. I waited until some men who had been sent on returned, and reported the road was empty and quiet for a mile ahead; and then, directing the lieutenant to place videttes in advance, and if attacked to draw up his horses in the rear of the barn and let his men fire through the logs until the main body should arrive, I recrossed the bridge. The men were still mounted, and waiting for the signal to advance. I informed them of what the first platoon had said, and they as stoutly insisted that there was a drum, because they had heard it. Whether it was indeed some small party of rebels beating an alarm, or the footfalls of our own horses rolling from the bridge, and echoed back from some distant hill, I leave you to determine.

I now turned my attention to preparations for the night. At the foot of the hill, and near the beginning of the causeway, a little country store stood empty and deserted. A fire was soon kindled, and its counter and shelves moved out of the way. All of the horses were kept saddled, and the men divided into two watches. One platoon, during the first half the night, stood by their horses, ready to mount in a moment, and then changed with the other for such rest as they could gather from the floor of the little building. The first platoon remained across the creek as a picket-guard toward Paris, and the fourth in the-rear as a picket for the cross-roads. I have been thus minute in order that you may have a clear idea of the manner in which such affairs are managed, and because I have never observed in the newspapers any narrative or statement which explains these details to friends at home. Perhaps you will ask, "What is a picket?" The papers constantly speak of our pickets being "thrown out," or the enemy's being "driven in," but never tell what sort of creatures these pickets are. The pickets are sentinels beyond the camp guard, and toward the enemy. There may be a chain of pickets stretching over the country; and the picket guard may be very large, or it may consist of a sergeant and six men. These are divided into three "relieves," which constitute the "videttes," or "lookout," as we might translate it. Toward evening they pass out several miles upon the road they are to guard, and then select a place for the night, but this they do not occupy till after dark; the sergeant then goes out with the first "relief," and "posts" them, selecting a place where they can see without being seen. The two on duty must remain mounted, and silent; the others may dismount, but not unsaddle; nor can they build a camp fire, nor indulge in any noise. After an hour the sergeant takes out the second "relief" and relieves the first, and then the third to relieve the second.

After visiting the videttes, I agreed to relieve my lieutenant at three in the morning, and then returned to the little store, unbuckled my buffalo, and was soon stretched with the men on the floor. It seemed as though I had been there but a few seconds, when I was roused by some one laying his hand on my shoulder and saying "Captain!" in a low voice. You wake quickly under such circumstances, and I was on my feet in an instant, demanding what was the matter. "Nothing; it's a quarter to three." "Indeed! that's a very soft floor." And I went out and remounted. The clouds were gone and the moon shone brilliant in the clear sky. At the tobacco-barn I found all quiet. The sentinel paced up and down in front, watching lest there should be an alarm from the videttes; and the men were stretched on some tobacco stalks within, sleeping as soundly without blankets as though on beds of down. It was time to relieve the videttes. "Call up the next relief." The sentinel goes in, shakes the next three, drops down himself, and in a minute is sound asleep. Of the three men who come out, one takes his place and the other two mount their horses. I had not personally relieved guard since at Camp Asboth last October, and was struck with the difference which practice and discipline had made. Then the men came out, one by one, half asleep, growling and yawning; now they were up at the first touch, wide awake, and apparently as willing as though called to breakfast.

On the crest of a hill, about a mile up the road, the videttes were posted. Seated, silent and motionless, on their horses, in front of a house, they looked in the moonlight like equestrian statues placed at the gateway. "Have you seen or heard anything?" "No, sir." "Has everything been quiet in this house?" "Yes, sir." "Well, you are relieved, and may cross the bridge; there is a fire in the store, and it is quite comfortable." Sitting thus motionless for hours in the chill night air, when the white frost is settling like snow on field and road, is no pleasant duty, and the mention of the fire was an unexpected gleam of comfort to the men. As they hastened back, we rode slowly on, partly to see if the road was clear, partly that the new relief might the better understand the ground they had to watch; and then I returned to the barn, where, fastening my horse, I paced up and down, and resorted to the usual methods of keeping warm. I glanced at my watch; but half an hour had gone, and two and a half remained. Time passes very slowly under such circumstances. Relieving the videttes broke in upon the monotony. "The people are stirring in the house, they have just started a fire," was the report. "Don't let any of them go up the road on any pretext;" and I rode back to the barn. How surprised they will be, I thought, when they come out and find two "armed invaders" have been watching over them while they slept. When I next came my round, the man of the house had just come out. He merely glanced at us, walked by, giving a sulky nod, and proceeded to feed his pigs, with as much indifference as though it were nothing to him whether a whole regiment of Yankees were in front of his door, or a hundred miles off.

So passed the time till a bright light gleamed through the trees toward the east. The sentinel saw it first. "Is that a fire, captain?" he asked. No; it was the morning star. Slowly it seemed to climb the trees, moving steadily from branch to branch, till it beamed from the clear sky above. Then came a belt of pale silver light, which grew brighter and brighter, until it turned to crimson; and then rose the sun. Our watch is over. "Call up the men, sergeant; order the second platoon across; and take a man and go two miles up the road, and see if there are any rebels there."

We passed a busy day. Parties were sent out, up and down the brook, to see if there were bridges or fords near us, and to ascertain where the cross-roads ran; others for forage; and one toward Paris, to watch any movement there. Guards were placed to stop persons on the road, so that no information might be carried to the enemy. I explored the banks of the brook near us, to make sure that no party could cross and attack us unexpectedly during the coming night. Late in the afternoon I had my horse unsaddled, spread my buffalo on the floor, pulled off my boots, and laid down for a good sleep before my night-watch commenced. Hardly down, ere an officer arrived from camp. Another squadron was coming to relieve us, and we were to return immediately. The men who had been on duty all day were asleep; their horses were all down too; our arrangements were all nicely completed for the night; but we must go. "Call in the videttes and saddle up," were the orders; and soon we were marching back. So ended my first experience in guarding bridges, and my care of the bridge over the Holly Fork.

There is in our school "Readers" a certain lesson about a vagrant little brook, wherein is told that "the glossy-green and coral clusters of the holly flung down reflections in rich profusion on the little pool visited by a ray of softer sunshine," etc. These words (if I recollect them rightly) were printed in different "Readers" in different ways; sometimes a hyphen between glossy-green, sometimes a comma; and again no mark whatever. A fearful wilderness of words it was, in which scholars and teachers, and even principals, at examinations, and other important times and seasons, have gone astray: whoever then correctly construed "glossy green" and "visited," could do what no one else could. While standing guard at the bridge, there came to me the memories of the reading lesson—of the one who succeeded and the many who failed—of disconcerted faces and puzzled looks, and the Holly Fork became associated with the lesson, as hereafter (should I ever return to North Moore street) the lesson will, doubtless, call to mind the Holly Fork.