OUR ADVANCE INTO VIRGINIA.

Meantime the weeks went on.  May 23d arrived.  Lovely creatures with their taper fingers had been brewing a flag for us.  Shall I say that its red stripes were celestial rosy as their cheeks, its white stripes virgin white as their brows, its blue field cerulean as their eyes, and its stars scintillating as the beams of the said peepers?  Shall I say this?  If I were a poet, like Jeff.  Davis and each and every editor of each and every newspaper in our misbehaving States, I might say it.  And involuntarily I have said it.

So the young ladies of New York—­including, I hope, her who made my sandwiches for the march hither—­had been making us a flag, as they have made us havelocks, pots of jelly, bundles of lint, flannel dressing-gowns, embroidered slippers for a rainy day in camp, and other necessaries of the soldier’s life.

May 23d was the day we were to get this sweet symbol of good-will.  At evening parade appeared General Thomas, as the agent of the ladies, the donors, with a neat speech on a clean sheet of paper.  He read it with feeling; and Private W., who has his sentimental moments, avows that he was touched by the General’s earnest manner and patriotic words.  Our Colonel responded with his neat speech, very apropos.  The regiment then made its neat speech, nine cheers and a roar of tigers,—­very brief and pointed.

There had been a note of preparation in General Thomas’s remarks,—­a “Virginia, cave canem!” And before parade was dismissed, we saw our officers holding parley with the Colonel.

Something in the wind!  As I was strolling off to see the sunset and the ladies on parade, I began to hear great irrepressible cheers bursting from the streets of the different companies.

“Orders to be ready to march at a moment’s notice!”—­so I learned presently from dozens of overjoyed fellows.  “Harper’s Ferry!” says one.  “Alexandria!” shouts a second.  “Richmond!” only Richmond will content a third.  And some could hardly be satisfied short of the hope of a breakfast in Montgomery.

What a happy thousand were the line-companies!  How their suppressed ardors stirred!  No want of fight in these lads!  They may be rather luxurious in their habits, for camp-life.  They may be a little impatient of restraint.  They may have—­as the type regiment of militia—­the type faults of militia on service.  But a desire to dodge a fight is not one of these faults.

Every man in camp was merry, except two hundred who were grim.  These were the two artillery companies, ordered to remain in guard of our camp.  They swore as if Camp Cameron were Flanders.

I by rights belonged with these malecontent and objurgating gentlemen; but a chronicler has privileges, and I got leave to count myself into the Eighth Company, my old friend Captain Shumway’s.  We were to move, about midnight, in light marching order, with one day’s rations.