MONROE TO FARRAGUT.

  By brutal force you’ve seized the town,
  And therefore the flag shall not come down. 
  And having told you that it shan’t,
  Just let me show you why it can’t. 
  The climate here is very queer,
  In the matter of flags at this time of year. 
  If a Pelican touched the banner prized,
  He would be immediately paralyzed. 
  I’m a gentleman born—­though now on the shelf,
  And I think you are almost one yourself. 
  For from my noble ancestry,
  I can tell the elite, by sympathy. 
  Had you lived among us, sir, now and then,
  No one can say what you might have been. 
  So refrain from any sneer or quiz,
  Which may wound our susceptibilities. 
  For my people are all refined—­like me,
  While yours are all low as low can be. 
  As for shooting women or children either,
  Or any such birds of the Union feather,
  We shall in all things consult our ease,
  And act exactly as we please. 
  For you’ve nothing to do with our laws, you know,
  Yours, merely ‘respectfully, JOHN MONROE.’

AMONG THE PINES.

Alighting from the carriage, I entered, with the Colonel, the cabin of the negro-hunter.  So far as external appearance went, the shanty was a slight improvement on the ‘Mills House,’ described in a previous chapter; but internally, it was hard to say whether it resembled more a pig-sty or a dog-kennel.  The floor was of the bare earth, covered in patches with loose plank of various descriptions, and littered over with billets of ‘lightwood,’ unwashed cooking utensils, two or three cheap stools, a pine settee—­made from the rough log and hewn smooth on the upper-side—­a full-grown blood-hound, two younger canines, and nine dirt-encrusted juveniles, of the flax-head species.  Over against the fire-place three low beds afforded sleeping accommodation to nearly a dozen human beings, (of assorted sizes, and dove-tailed together with heads and feet alternating,) and in the opposite corner a lower couch, whose finer furnishings told plainly it was the peculiar property of the ‘wee-ones’ of her family—­a mother’s tenderness for the youngest thus cropping out even in the midst of filth and degradation—­furnished quarters for an unwashed, uncombed, unclothed, saffron-hued little fellow about fifteen months old, and—­the dog ‘Lady.’

The dog was of a dark hazel-color—­a cross between a setter and a gray-hound—­and one of the most beautiful creatures I ever saw.  Her neck and breast were bound about with a coarse cotton cloth, saturated with blood, and emitting a strong odor of bad whisky; and her whole appearance showed the desperate nature of the encounter with the overseer.