and broad sheets of yellow light seem warming up the dripping
wall and changing into mist the clinging beads of dew. And now, far
aloft, the fringe of firs and stunted oaks is seen upon the summit as
the sun breaks through the shimmering veil, and there, fluttering
against the blue of heaven, circled in fleecy frame of vapor, glowing,
waving in the sky, all aflame with tingeing sunshine, there leaps into
view the "Flag of the Free," crowning the Maryland heights and shining
far up the guarded valley of the Shenandoah. A puff of smoke juts out
from the very summit across the stream; the sentry eyes it with a sigh
of reviving interest in life; five, ten, twenty seconds he counts before
the boom of the salute follows the sudden flash and wakes the echoes of
the opposite cliffs.

Listen! Up on the westward heights, somewhere among those frowning
batteries, a bugle rings out upon the air--

"I can't get 'em up, I can't get 'em up,
I can't get 'em up in the mo--orning,"

it merrily sings, and the rocks of Loudon echo back the spirited notes.
Farther up the valley a distant drum rattles, and then, shrill and
piercing, with hoarse, rolling accompaniment, the fifes of some infantry
regiment burst into the lively trills of the _reveille_. Another camp
takes up the strain, off to the left. Then the soft notes of the cavalry
trumpets come floating up from the water-side, and soon, regiment after
regiment, the field-music is all astir and the melody of the initial
effort becomes one ringing, blaring, but most effectually waking
discord. Loud in the nearest camp the little drummers and fifers are
thumping away at "Bonnie Lass o' Gawrie." Over by the turnpike the rival
corps of the--th Connecticut are pounding out the cheerful strains in
which Ireland's favored bard declared he would "Mourn the hopes that
leave," little dreaming that British fifes and drums would make it
soldier music--"two-four time"--all the world over. Halfway across the
valley, where the Bolivars narrow it, an Ohio regiment is announcing to
the rest of the army, within earshot, that it wakes to the realization
that its "Name it is Joe Bowers," tooted and hammered in "six-eight
time" through the lines of "A" tents; and a New York Zouave organization
turns out of its dew-dripping blankets and cordially blasphemes the
musicians who are expressing as their conception of the regimental
sentiment, "Oh, Willie, we have missed you." And so the chorus goes up
and do