.

The Battle of Stone River.
O, wherefore come ye forth, in triumph from the North, With your hands and your feet, and your raiment all red?
And wherefore doth your rout, send forth a joyous shout?
And whence be the grapes of the wine-press that ye tread?
O, evil was the root, and bitter was the fruit, And crimson was the juice of the vintage that we tred; For we trampled on the throng, of the haughty and the strong, Who sat in the high places and slew the saints of God.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * They are here--they rush on--we are broken--we are gone-- Our left is borne before them like stubble in the blast.

O, Lord, put forth thy might! O, Lord, defend the right! Stand back to back, in God's name! and fight it to the last.
-- "Battle of Naseby." The celebration of Christmas in the camps around Nashville was abruptly terminated by the reception of orders to march in the morning, with full haversacks and cartridge-boxes.

The next day all the roads leading southward became as rivers flowing armed men.

Endless streams of blue, thickly glinted everywhere with bright and ominous steel, wound around the hills, poured over the plains, and spread out into angry lakes wherever a Rebel outpost checked the flow for a few minutes.
Four thousand troopers under the heroic Stanley--the foam-crest on the war-billow--dashed on in advance.