OF scenes like these, I say, who writeswhoeer can write the story? Of many a scoreaye, thousands, north and south, of unwrit heroes, unknown heroisms, incredible, impromptu, first-class desperationswho tells? No history everno poem sings, no music sounds, those bravest men of allthose deeds. No formal generals report, nor book in the library, nor column in the paper, embalms the bravest, north or south, east or west. Unnamed, unknown, remain, and still remain, the bravest soldiers. Our manliestour boysour hardy darlings; no picture gives them. Likely, the typic one of them (standing, no doubt, for hundreds, thousands,) crawls aside to some bush-clump, or ferny tuft, on receiving his death-shotthere sheltering a little while, soaking roots, grass and soil, with red bloodthe battle advances, retreats, flits from the scene, sweeps byand there, haply with pain and suffering (yet less, far less, than is supposed,) the last lethargy winds like a serpent round himthe eyes glaze in deathnone recksperhaps the burial-squads, in truce, a week afterwards, search not the secluded spotand there, at last, the Bravest Soldier crumbles in mother earth, unburied and unknown.