s we get within hailing distance,
we sing out for our letters, and are answered: 'While you were chasing
the schooner, we left your mail on board the Iroquois.' 'The devil you
did!' say some in bitter disappointment, but red tape demands that we
wait till the flagship sees fit to signal us to come for letters. The
hours pass wearily. We have waited weeks for home news, and, now that it
is here, we must wait again--a day, two days--a week even, if it suits
the flagship's convenience. At last the signals float and read: 'Letters
for the ----; come and get them.'

At last! The seals are broken and we read the news. One tells of a sick
mother, dying, and longing to see her son. Another is from M----'s lady
love: we know by the way he blushes, the fine hand and closely written
pages, and various other symptoms. And our fleet of ironclads are busy
at Charleston. Heaven help the cause they work for! Now we must hasten
with our answers, to have them ready for sending at a moment's notice,
when it is signalled: 'A vessel bound North, and will carry your mails,
if ready.'

As the sun goes down, the horizon is lit up with bonfires stretching
along the coast for miles. 'These fires mean something,' we say
knowingly; 'depend upon it, the rebs expect some vessel in to-night.'
Nothing came of it, however, though the following afternoon we saw a
steamer with two smoke stacks come down the river and take a look,
perhaps to see as to her chances of getting out that night. The twilight
darkened into night, and night wore on into the small hours, and now we
gazed into the gloom anxiously, for at this time, if any, she would seek
to run out. With straining eyes and the most intense quiet, we listen
for the sound of paddle wheels. A stranger passing along our decks,
seeing in the darkness the shadowy forms of men crouched in listening
attitudes, would have fancied himself among a body of Indians watching
stealthily some savage prey. The night passes on; gray dawn tells of the
sun's approach, and soon his streaming splendor lights up sea and land.
We look to see if our hoped for prize still waits in the river, but
no--she is not there. The day wears on and still no signs of her. If she
has slipped by us, it is through the mouth and not the inlet, we feel
sure, but still are chagrined, and, doubting the possibility of ever
catching one, go to bed with the blues.

The next day we brighten up a little, to be saddened the more, for the
Massach