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mont, and their associates. Among the brilliant figures, the hard fighters grouped around the man of Kernstown and Port Republic at that time, Ashby was perhaps the most notable and famous. As the great majority of my readers never saw the man, a personal outline of him here in the beginning may interest. Even on this soil there are many thousands who never met that model chevalier and perfect type of manhood. He lives in all memories and hearts, but not in all eyes. What the men of Jackson saw at the head of the Valley cavalry in the spring of 1862, was a man rather below the middle height, with an active and vigorous frame, clad in plain Confederate gray. His brown felt hat was decorated with a black feather; his uniform was almost without decorations: his cavalry boots, dusty or splashed with mud, came to the knee; and around his waist he wore a sash and plain leather belt, holding pistol and sabre. The face of this man of thirty or a little more, was noticeable. His com
ld look better if you saw it from the porch at home, with Mary or Fanny by your side? Picturesque, but not warm. Pile on the rails, my boy; never mind the expense. The Confederacy pays-or don't pay — for all the fences; and nothing warms the feet, expands the soul, and makes the spirits cheerful like a good rail-fire. I was reading in an old paper, the other day, some poetry-writing which they said was found on the body of one of Stonewall's sergeants at Winchester — a song he called Jackson's way. He tells his comrades to pile on the rails, and says, No matter if the canteen fails, We'll make a roaring light! Sensible-and speaking of canteens, is there anything in yours, my boy? Nothing. Such is fate! I was born unlucky, and always will be so. Now a drop of brandy would not have been bad to-night; or say a mouthful of whiskey, or a little apple or peach-brandy, gin, madeira, sherry, claret, or even bottled porter, crab-cider or champagne! Any of these would have com