grey, who came out of a low frame house as the troops slowly
made their way past the teams through the village of Sandy Hook.

"Right on this rock is where General Jackson rested hisself," continued
the old woman.

"Were there many Rebs about?" inquired one of the men.

"Right smart of them, I reckon;" replied the old woman; "but Lord! what
a lookin' set of critters. Elbows and knees out; many of them hadn't
shoes, and half of them that had had their toes out. You boys are
dandies to them. And tired too, and hungry. Gracious! the poor fellows,
when their officers weren't about, would beg for anything almost to eat.
Why, my daughter Sal saw them at the soap-fat barrel! They said they
were nearly marched and starved to death. And their officers didn't look
much better. Lord! it looks like a pic-nic party to see you blue coats,
with your long strings of wagons, and all your other fixins. You take
good care of your bellies, the way you haul the crackers and bacon. Old
Jackson never waits for wagons. That's the way he gets around you so
often."

"Look here, old woman," roared out one of the men, "you had better dry
up."

"Yes, and he'll get around you again," continued the old woman in a
louder key. "You think you're going to bag him, do you. You're some on
baggin'; but he'll give you three days' start and beat you down the
valley. They acted like gentlemen, too, didn't touch a thing without
leave, and you fellows have robbed me of all I have."

"They were in 'My Maryland,' and wanted to get the people all straight,"
suggested one of the boys.

The old lady did not take the hint, but kept on berating the fresh men
as they passed--taunting them by disparaging comparison with the Rebel
troops. A neighbor, by informing them of the fact of her having two
sons in the Rebel service, imparted the secret of her interest.

* * * * *

And there is the Ferry, so often pictured, or attempted to be, by pen
and pencil. Either art has failed, and will fail, to do justice to that
sublimely grand mountain scenery. Not quite three years ago, an iron old
man, who perished with the heroism of a Spartan, or rather, to be just,
the faith of a Christian; but little more than a year in advance of the
dawn of the day of his hope, centred upon this spot the eyes of a
continent. A crazy fanatic, was the cry, but--

"Thy scales, Mortality, are just
To all that pass away."

Time will reve