It is a pleasant Spring morning, and I am ordered to take my company and "scout to and beyond Conyersville, with two days' rations." There is a stir and bustle through our tents, and great delight at the thought of going out. Some are bringing up horses from the picket ropes; others are rolling blankets, and strapping them behind the saddles; others are packing away coffee, pork and hard biscuit in a pair of rude saddle-bags, which we have made from an old tent, and now carry on a led horse. Soon Bischoff leads his horse and mine up to the tent, and soon after the first sergeant reports all ready. The men are drawn up in line; they "count off by fours;" the order is given, "by two's to the right," and we are marching slowly over the high hills and through the tall oaks which belt the Tennessee.

Though it is a March morning, the air is as soft and balmy as it will be in New York next May; and in the distance, the opening buds throw a mist-like haze over the forests. Here and there a crow starts from some tall tree, and caws familiarly as he flies away; and high over head, the chicken hawk sails round and round as we have often seen him do at home. When first we came here last February, there were robins in these woods and many Northern birds, who seemed sad and songless, and behaved like invalids passing the winter at the South. The meadow lark spread her wings languidly, and the robins sat listless on the apple trees, as though they were home-sick, and, like us, longed to fly back to their Northern nests. The blackbirds alone kept up their spirits, flying around and across such fields as they could find in rapid, veering, fitful flight—

If you had been riding with us for the last five miles, you would think we were travelling through an unbroken forest. The bridle-road, worn smooth by cavalry horses, runs down in deep hollows and climbs up high hills—but always in the woods. Fallen trees lie across it, frequently compelling us to zig-zag round them; and when we look out from the openings on the brow of the higher hills, we see nothing but woods—unending woods. One or two melancholy figures have met us; clad in their sombre dress, and mounted on their ambling mules, they have silently nodded and passed on. Once or twice the settler's axe has rung out from some distant dale, as if to tell how far these solitudes extend. The wild turkey has called to us not far from the road; the quails have sat still, and looked curiously at us; and the brown turkey buzzard has soared near by, as though he neither knew nor cared whether we were there or not. Yet, nestled in these wilds, are many farms and houses, whose owners love seclusion, and hide themselves from each other by a veil of intervening forest.

In one of these there lives an elderly man named Patterson. When first by accident we rode past his door, one of the men said "He looks more like a Union man than any one we have seen yet;" and we soon learnt that he was a Philadelphian, who had wandered to Tennessee many years ago for health: he had married here, settled and become a Tennessean. His clothes are the yellowish, brownish homespun, which we all call "butternut;" and his house has the strange opening through the centre, so common here. I cannot quite determine whether these Tennessee houses consist of two houses hitched together by "the roof o'erhead" and the floor beneath, or of one long house, with a big hole cut through the middle. They are not bad in warm weather, for there is a breeze blowing through this open part, and in it the family sit and work. The stone chimney runs up the outside of the house, and gourd dippers are hung around the door.

I like these gourd dippers much—the water tastes better from them than from anything else, and the sight of one makes me thirsty. We therefore stop to see Mr. Patterson, and get a drink; the pail of fresh water is quickly carried from the spring, and the gourd dippers are eagerly seized by the men.

Some miles from Mr. Patterson, we stop to feed. It's a bleak house, and looks as though the owner had been long away. Two small boys appear—very frightened and very civil.

"Where is your father, my boy?" I ask of the elder.

"In the army, sir."

"The Southern army?"

"Yes, sir."

"And your mother?"

"She's gone up to grandfather's."

"Well, my boy, I shall have to take some of your corn for our horses."

"Oh! I don't care nothin' about the corn, if yuh wunt pester us."

We all laugh at this, and assure him he shan't be pestered. The horses are unbridled, picketed to the fence, and fed; and the men sit on the sunny side of the road and eat their dinner. We take an hour's rest and then remount. As we come in sight of a rather better looking house than usual, we see a couple of its young ladies in the garden, men ploughing in the field, and women working in the yard. Suddenly there's a great commotion. The two young ladies turn and fly to the house; the men in the field drop their ploughs and run to the house; the women in the yard follow to the house. We ask, what can the matter be; it looks as though a thunder storm had burst on them, and they have run to the house to keep dry. But as we draw nearer, we see them anxiously peering through doors and windows at us. "There's a chance for you, W——, to be polite; ride up and ask them, if they've been troubled by guerrillas, and whether we can be of any service." My lieutenant turns his horse and gallops across the field. We watch him as he approaches the house, and laugh as we observe the inmates rapidly retire from door and windows. Then one contraband comes bravely out, to whom the lieutenant appears to be talking; and then reappear the men, the women, five or six dogs, and the two young ladies. The lieutenant soon rejoins us, laughing; we were the first United States soldiers they had seen, and they didn't know but we would burn the house and kill them; they had run to the house, because it was "nat'ral," and they didn't know where else to run.

But evening approaches, and I must choose a camping ground for the night. On our left, half a mile back from the road, I can see a large house, surrounded with many stacks and corn-cribs. It belongs to Major Thornton, who is spoken of as a very rich man, and by no means a loyal one. He has not yet had the pleasure of entertaining soldiers, and I determine to stop with him for the night. But do not suppose that I shall halt now while the sun is up, and messengers can ride off and tell King's cavalry that we are here. Oh, no! we shall make a long circuit, and steal back here three or four hours from now—when people in the adjoining houses have gone to bed, and the darkness hides our movements and our sleeping-place.

An hour or two brings us to Conyersville. It is indeed hidden from us by some woods, but for half an hour every one has told us it is "uh byout uh haf uh mile uh syo;" so we feel sure it is not far off now. A contraband is seen coming down the road, and he stops and tells me there are soldiers in Conyersville—he doesn't know which kind; he says he "could see them a moving along the road, and was afeard to go in, for fear they might be seceshers." We have two squadrons out, but they were not expected here, and King's camp is only a dozen miles or so away. 'Tis an even chance whether they are our men or the enemy's. "Close up." "Form fours." "Draw sabre." In a minute we shall be in a fight, or—jogging along as quietly as before. We reach the top of a little hill, and on another road before us are moving the dust and figures of a body of cavalry—but through it are seen the blue jackets and sabres of our troops, and in another moment we recognize them as our own men. I hold a short conference with the captain, and then we ride into Conyersville.

Conyersville is "not much of a place," the men say; "there is a tavern, and a store, and a blacksmith shop, and half a dozen houses; and the folks are all secesh." Yet weeks in the woods give one a craving for a city; so we stop at Conyersville a little while, all the while knowing there is nothing to see. We then turn to the left, and go some miles down the Paris road. We pass a road that runs back to Major Thornton's, partly because it is too early to go there, partly to the better mislead any one who might follow us. At last, as it grows dark, we come to a second road, which turns off at a sharp angle and goes to the major's; and this we take. It runs through thick woods—through a swamp—along the edge of a little millpond—over its rickety bridge, and close to its little mill. It is so dark, indeed, that we can hardly find the major's, and even ride a little way past the gate. At length we turn in, and the lieutenants ride on to wake the people up and inform them that we are coming. Being rather grander people than usual, they have not gone to bed. Now, walking into a man's house and taking possession of it is not an agreeable task. At home, it seemed so; but when you come face to face with the man, and more especially with the man's wife and children, the duty becomes unpleasant. It is done somewhat in this way: One of the lieutenants is standing by the garden gate, with a stout man beside him, and as I ride up, he says, "This is Major Thornton." "I am sorry to trouble you, Major Thornton, but I must stay here to-night, and shall have to take forage for sixty horses, and use your kitchen for my men to cook their supper. Where would you prefer my putting the horses?" The major says he has a large barn yard; that will suit him, if it will suit us. "Very well, sir, if you will send some of your men to show us and give out the forage, I will see that none is wasted."

The men wheel into the yard, and a couple of contrabands, very loyal and cheerful, assist us to the major's oats. They enjoy feeding the United States horses at the major's expense immensely, and insist on throwing down from the stack a dozen more sheaves than we want. "It ull do them ere hosses of yourn so much good—they don't get oats every day—oats mighty scarce in this country; and the major, he's nothin' but a secesher," they say.

While I am overlooking the men, Bischoff, with his usual skill, has picked out the best place in the yard for the horses. "You sleep here, captain," he says, "this side of the corn crib, and I tie the horses close by, and then get some corn stalks and make a bed." Meanwhile I have a private talk with one of the contrabands, and learn all I can about the roads around us. "How many men for guard and picket, captain?" asks the first sergeant. "I find there are two roads, sergeant, so you will have to detail fifteen men and a sergeant and corporal. I shall sleep at the end of the corn crib; let them bring up their horses there, and let the other men unsaddle."

This done, I walk in to see Major Thornton and his family. The major is a middle-aged gentleman, who revels in a rich farm and sixty niggers. He is very civil, but by no means glad to see us. But his wife is a kind woman, whose hospitality has become a habit, and she could not treat us with more politeness and cordiality if we were really her guests. She gives the men all the milk in the dairy, which is always a treat to them, and urges me to let as many as possible sleep in the house—she has fourteen beds, she says, at their service, and it will be too bad to make them sleep out in the cold. But the men must sleep together, and by their horses; so her good natured offer is declined. Beside Mrs. Thornton, there sits a good natured little daughter, with light hair and blue eyes, and the pretty name of Nelly. Miss Nelly tells me that the war has cut them off from literature, which they took in form of the New York "Ledger." She brings out some of the old numbers, with Mr. Cobb's terrific stories and pictures of knights on horseback and ladies in swoons, all looking so familiar, that I almost expect to hear a newsboy run round the corner, shouting "Ledger! New York Ledger!"

After spending half an hour thus, I go out. The men have finished their supper, and are going back to the yard. They choose sheltered positions, where stack or crib wards off the wind, and there lay down a little mattress of corn fodder. Two of them then join forces in blankets and sleep together. After looking at the men, and walking round among the horses, I turn toward the crib where I am to spend the night. There is a good bed of corn leaves spread upon the ground; at the head, the crib breaks the wind, and at the foot, my horse stands picketed to the fence; a little to one side sleep the guard; and around, ready saddled and bridled, stand their horses. It will soon be time for the second relief to go out, so I wait. Soon the corporal on camp guard comes up, and pulling out his watch, says, "Ten o'clock." "Then call up the next relief." They are soon up: the men for picket mount their horses; the sergeant takes two and rides down one road—the corporal two and rides down the other; the new sentinel takes the place of the old one, who quickly crawls into his bed among the corn leaves. "Call me," I say to the other, "if you hear any alarm, and when it is time to relieve guard." "Yes, sir:" and I lie down. I unclasp my belt, and draw my sabre and pistol close beside me. You do not know how much like friends they seem. The corn leaves feel cold and damp; the night is dark; and the wind wails mournfully. I draw my buffalo close, and wish I were warm and asleep. For a moment I raise my head, for up the road I hear the tramp of horses. It is slow and regular; the sergeant returning with the men on picket. They come in, fasten their horses, and lie down under their blankets; and they and I fall asleep.

I have not slept long, and was but just roused by some one laying his hand on my shoulder. It is the guard. I am up in an instant, and ask what is the matter. Nothing, it is time to relieve the picket. Again the sergeant and the corporal go out with the fresh relief, and again I lie down to sleep. At last the camp guard, as he calls me, says, "Four o'clock," instead of "Time to relieve," and then I order "Call up the men."

The day is breaking as we pass out of the yard, and wheel round the corner of the house. Early as it is, Miss Nelly is up to see us off, and her pleasant little face smiles and bows happily from the piazza. Mrs. Thornton, too, is up, and, as I bid her good day, she courteously says we had better wait for breakfast, it will be ready soon; and she points to the kitchen chimney, from which the smoke is rising briskly. These Tennessean women work harder, I think, than ours do at home. All day long, as you ride, you will hear the droning spinning wheel in almost every house, and beside it the clack of the heavy hand loom. The wives and daughters of the poorer farmers do all the garden work, and much besides that ours hand over to the men. We see black women grubbing out bushes in the fields, and white ones ploughing, harrowing, and hauling grain, with ox teams, to the mill. The wives of rich planters rise early, and seem busied and worried till night. The houses would have a thriftless look to our eyes, did not fine trees surround them. Trees are the one thing in which they show good taste. They do not ride much in carriages, because the roads are rough and carriages are scarce. Yet side-saddles are plenty; and constantly on these bridle roads you will meet women on mules, often with a child or two perched on behind—or perhaps a mother carrying her baby in her arms, and mounted on a sober, old mare, whose little colt frisks merrily around.

We have not met any though this morning, and at eight o'clock have travelled back to the Paris road, and to within four miles of Paris. Here we halt for breakfast. The men whose turn it is for picket, ride on a mile or two down the road, the others dismount. The two who act as cooks take possession of a little out-kitchen, and proceed to fry the bacon and boil the coffee. I walk into the house and find a wretched family. The father of it is old and sick. He groans as I speak to him, and says: "Oh, our wretched country! What have we done that we must suffer so? I have always been for the Union, but the young men are all against it." His son, a young man, and evidently a rebel, seems equally wretched. I tell him I must feed my horses, and he points to the barn yard, and says there is corn there. Generally these people receive us with some show of welcome, but he seems utterly indifferent. I ask him if he will not see that his property is not abused; that perhaps there is some crib or stack he does not want touched; but he shakes his head, and walks up and down the piazza, paying no more attention to us. Down a deep ravine behind the house is a beautiful spring. Gigantic oaks rise over it, and the water flows from a bank of fine, white sand—so fine and white that it seems an alabaster fountain. Here I unroll my towel and make my toilet, and then climb the hill for breakfast, which is ready.

This duty done, we resume the march. I am ordered not to enter Paris, and, therefore, turn off and strike across the country, to regain the direct road from Paris to the Holly Fork. A very blind road it is, winding through woods, and frequently lost. Yet here are wide plantations, shut in from the rest of the world, with their large houses, and chickens, and beehives, to all appearance patterns of peace and contentment. Within them you will find a people plain and simple in their manners and their lives, with many good traits, and some bad ones. They have an easy, quiet way with them of taking things as they find them, with little show, and less pretension. The hot blood we hear about hardly ever appears, and then seems the effect of too much tobacco and bad cooking. Indeed, I frequently think the cooking is the cause of the rebellion. They all look dyspeptic, and are disposed to be low-spirited and despondent. If you were to walk in and dine with them, you would find that fried pork and corn dodger were certainly on the table. This corn dodger, you must know, is a mixture of corn-meal and water, very nearly the size and shape of a roll of butter split in two and hurriedly heated, though hardly baked. A week ago I was at a house where there were four dishes of pork upon the table. To these may be added some fried chickens and hot biscuit, and this will be the unchanging bill of fare. Bread—that is what we call bread—I have not yet seen, and am sure it is hardly known.

But dinner done, at this house I speak of, there came before me another little custom that may surprise some of my friends. The mother of the family took her pipe, which I had often seen before, and was not surprised at; but the daughter furthest from me dived down in her pocket, and, after rummaging there a minute, brought up—

a plug of tobacco, and then deliberately took a chew! The second and third followed; and then the three young ladies drew up around the sacred hearth (which some of their cousins were lighting to protect from the pollution of us Yankees) and indulged in a little social spitting. It is embarrassing, if you are not used to it, to ask a country belle a question, and then have her turn her head suddenly the other way and spit before she answers. The first time we witnessed this interesting ceremony, a young officer of our party thought he would do something cool—he would ask a woman for a chew of tobacco. So, marching up, he said, "Miss, will you be so kind as to give me a chew of your tobacco?" The rest of us felt annoyed; but the girl quietly, and as a matter of course, fumbled in her pocket and brought out the old plug.

But while I am telling you this we have come out on the Paris road, and have turned toward the Holly Fork. The causeway and the bridge are unchanged, and the little store is still empty and open. We reach the cross-road, on the top of the hill, and then turn to the right. This leaf-covered road leads through tall woods and secluded farms. We see no one in the wide-spreading fields, nor about the distant farm-houses: they might be thought deserted but for the smoke that lazily rises and floats away. At one little wayside cabin the owner asks us, in the usual phrase, to "alight." There are many old English words and phrases among this people—some odd and obsolete, and some better and more correct than our own. Thus, for our awkward "get down," they have "alight." Instead of saying, "How early did you get up this morning?" they would say, "How early did you arise?" Relations, relatives, and connections they call kinfolk; and these are never well dressed, but well clad. A horse-path is known as a bridle-road; a brook as a branch, and a stream as a fork. One man complimented Bischoff by saying he was the most chirk young fellow in the regiment; and a young lady praised her own horse by telling me that Gipsy might run fast, but she couldn't tote double.

But two or three miles down this road we come to a gate, on which three little contrabands hang, grinning. Very quickly they drop down and swing open the gate; and very glad they are to see us, whatever missus may be. Within this gate is a fine open grove, and through it are seen a small timber house, some contraband cabins, and a barn or two. We have heard of this house before. It belongs to a Lieutenant Reynolds of the rebel service, and was selected, before we started, as a good stopping-place. In one of the cabins we find a young mulatto woman, whose sad, intelligent face awakens more than usual respect.

"Is Mrs. Reynolds at home?" I ask.

"No, sir, she's at her mother's."

"Are you alone here?"

"There's a man a ploughing, sir, out in the field there, and another girl—she's a grubbing."

"Whose children are these? Yours?"

"That one's mine, sir; the other two's mother is gone."

"Where?"

"To Memphis, I s'pose, sir. They sent her off and sold her the time your soldiers took the fort."

"Will your mistress be back to-night?"

"No, sir, she don't stay here nights."

"Then I must trouble you to show me where your provisions are. My men have eaten up all their rations and must have supper here."

Two of the men come in and go to work as cooks, and the others are in the yard, unsaddling and cleaning their horses. With one of the sergeants, I stroll out to the road. We cross it and walk a few yards, to get a view of some fields beyond. As we are looking and talking of the pickets for the coming night, in the distance, down the road, we hear a shout or two, and then a rumbling noise.

"What is that, sergeant?"

"It's horses," says the sergeant; "they are galloping—and there's more than one too."

We both spring for the gate.

"Shall I order the men to fall in?" asks the sergeant.

"No; there are not many horses coming. Let us wait and see."

In another moment appears through the trees, a black boy mounted on a horse, and behind him two mules on a gallop. The black boy repeats his wild "Yoo, yoo—yo, yoo," and when he does so the mules redouble their speed. As he approaches the gate, he pulls up.

"What are you galloping for?" I ask. "Is anything the matter?"

"Oh, no, sah; I been a ploughing all day, and am a comin' home."

"What! do those mules plough all day and gallop home in this way at night?"

"Oh, yes, sah; they likes it. Why, it does 'em good."

The boy and mules all look so bright and fresh that I am bound to believe it does them all good; and as we thus talk the other girl comes up the road, carrying her heavy grubbing hoe upon her shoulder, and with many startled looks at us, goes toward the house. They are a strange people these Southerners, full of inconsistencies and all sorts of incongruous traits. They are not a musical people; you never hear a boy whistle, or a girl singing at her work; they are not liberally educated, and schools and schoolmasters are few. Yet in half the houses you will find pianos, and half the women play by note. In this house the ceiling is not plastered; the unpainted mantel is covered with broken bottles and old candlesticks; the rough log walls are adorned with twopenny engravings cut from almanacs and country papers; all the furniture in the house is not worth $5; but there is a piano, a handsome one, with a showy cover. It is so with their characters: some are very high-minded, and some are very mean; and some, with a stock in trade of honor, unite the most Indian-like duplicity. And here let me tell you a story to the point.

As the black boy loiters round, I say to him, "Well, Dick, have you seen any soldiers before this?"

"No, sah," says Dick; "but missus has."

"Ah! where did she see them?"

"Why, thar was some of your soldiers up to Mr. Clokes' a spell ago, one Sunday, and missus she was thar."

Now, as you will recollect, we were at Mr. Clokes' on a Sunday, and there were one or two visitors there then. The doctor and I had been very polite to everybody, and everybody had been very polite to us, and none more so than these visitors. When we left, I complacently said to the doctor that this was much the best way to treat these people, it must conciliate them; and the doctor had said, "Oh, certainly; if we have not made them loyal, we have at least impressed them favorably." So, recollecting all this, I said to Dick:

"Well, Dick, what did your missus say about the Union soldiers?"

"Oh! she said they made her so mad she could hardly eat."

"Hardly eat! Indeed—why what did they do to her?"

"Oh, they didn't do nothin' to her, only she said she couldn't bear the sight of um; she said they acted all the time just like a parcel o' niggers!"

There's a compliment for us, thinks I. I must tell the doctor of that—and how favorably we impressed them!

Supper is over. The corn dodger was far better than hard biscuit; the roasted sweet potatoes were excellent; and the lieutenant's ham a great improvement on his patriotism. The men have lain down in little groups around the house; in front, under the large trees, burns the guard fire. The guard sleep behind it, and their horses, saddled and bridled, are picketed as usual beside them. The pickets have gone out, and the sentinel moves slowly backward and forward near the gate. I walk down to speak to him. As I approach, he wheels sharply round and challenges, "Who comes there?" I give the usual answer, "Friend, with the countersign." "Advance, and give the countersign," and he points his carbine at me. I advance, and whisper the word "Roanoke." "The countersign is correct," says the sentinel; "pass on."

This form of challenging is always followed at night, even though the sentinel distinctly sees, and perfectly well knows the person coming. The "countersign" is a word, usually the name of a battle; it is given to the sergeant of the guard at sunset, and he gives it to each sentinel as he posts him. The countersign is kept concealed from everybody but the commanding officer and the officers of the day and of the guard. When any person is to be sent through the lines, one of these officers may give him the countersign, and it only will enable him to pass. If I had not had the countersign, it would have been the sentinel's duty to detain me, and call for the sergeant of the guard.

"Captain," says the sentinel, "I was going to call you. I think I hear a wagon coming."

We listen, and its creaking grows plainer down the road. We move to one side, and the wagon draws nearer.

"Shall I halt them?" says the sentinel.

"No; I hear children's voices."

They come on and pass close beside us; the children prattle away, and the father and mother talk of William somebody, who did something or other, and how Jane and her husband were going somewhere with the baby, but won't now for some unknown reason. They do not know that we stand close beside them, and that within a few yards is a troop of horse. If they did, the sentinel would halt them, and they would go no further to-night; but as it is, we are tolerably secure this side of the Holly Fork, and they are so manifestly ignorant of our whereabout, that I spare them the fright of being stopped by soldiers and kept from home all night.

"But don't let any more pass, Waldron," I say to the sentinel, "and keep a bright look out, and call me if you hear the slightest sound."

"Yes, sir." And Waldron resumes his lonely walk.

I leave him, and as I approach the guard, the sergeant is rousing the next relief.

"Walter," I say to a young trooper, who is going out on picket, "Walter, you are to go back a mile on the road we came down, and you will be posted near the wide cornfield that we passed."

"Yes, sir."

"Be careful that you give no false alarm; but if there should be anything, then fire your carbine in this direction, and come in on a gallop."

"Yes, sir."

"And, Walter, you need to be very watchful to-night, for you will be the only man on that road, and it is a lonely spot."

"Yes, sir," says Walter, with undiminished cheerfulness, "I'll be very careful."

And then he turns toward his saddled horse, tightens the girth, and unhitches the rein.

He cannot be thinking of himself, for as I walk away I hear him softly singing:

And with sweet Ellen Bayne ringing in my ears, I lie down beside the camp fire and fall asleep.