Staunton Spectator

We would urge upon the farmers generally the propriety of raising as much corn and oats the ensuing season as possible. Patriotism and interest combine to induce the farmers to raise as much of these grains as they can. The country needs them for the support of the army, and the prices of these products will be so high that the farmers will be well paid for their labor. It is as necessary to have food as to have guns and bayonets--as necessary to have laborers in the fields, as to have soldiers in the army. Those who labor at home, in raising necessary products for the sustenance to the army, render valuable service to their country. The man who guides the plow renders his country service, as well as the gallant soldier who wields the sword. He has, however, this great advantage over the soldier, for which he should be duly grateful--that whilst he is in no danger and is making money, the soldier is in danger of losing his life, and does not make enough money to clothe himself comfortably. We hope that our farmers will do their whole duty, and will put forth extraordinary exertions to raise not only as much corn and oats as possible, but as many potatoes, and as much of all kinds of vegetables as they can. Our farmers may be denominated our home soldiers, and we hope that whilst our heroic soldiers in the army are gathering laurels, our "home soldiers" may be gathering an abundant harvest.

The Yankees and "rebel" pickets very frequently converge with each other across the river, and sometimes make an exchange of tobacco and coffee. They make little bark boats, put paper sails to them and start them across the river. The Yankees are very scarce of tobacco, and are always willing to send over to the "rebel" pickets a little bag of coffee for a plug or two of tobacco. Not a great while since one of our pickets, belonging to the regiment of Col. William Stuart, was pacing his beat without an overcoat, the weather at the time being very cold, when a Yankee sentinel on the opposite side of the river, compassionating his condition, addressed him as follows:

Yankee Sentinel. "Hallo, over there, 'aint you mighty cold?"

Confed. Sentinel. "Yes, dev'lish cold."

Yankee Sentinel. "Don't you want an overcoat?"

Confed. Sentinel. "Yes, would like to have one."

Yankee Sentinel. "Well, hold on a bit, and I'll send you one."

The Yankee disappeared for a short time, then appeared with a bundle under his arm, went down to the bank of the river, prepared a boat with sails, confided it to the winds, and in a short time it reached the Southern bank, when the confederate sentinel found that the Yankee "was as good as his word," for he found in the tiny boat a most excellent overcoat. He expressed his cordial thanks to his friendly enemy, put the coat on, and walked his beat with his back warmed with the Yankee overcoat, and his heart warmed with gratitude for the Yankee's kindness.

Sometimes, instead of exchanging coffee, tobacco, papers, & c., they exchange sharp with and cutting repartee. "Personne," the correspondent of the Charleston Courier, tells the following:

Not long ago one of our men, an Alabama lawyer, cried out to his neighbor opposite:

"I say, Yank, when are you coming over again?"

"Look here, 'butternut,' 'simmer down' on that point; we don't want 'er come at all."

"Why, didn't we treat you well," was the rejoinder-"didn't we give you a ball?"

"Yes," shouted the Yankee, "but you led us a -- of a dance. What time does your music play in?"

"Bull Run time," was the prompt reply--"in C sharps for our side, and B flats for yours."

"Bully for you--whoop--I say 'corn fed,' I'll stand treat if I see you after the war."

"Don't want'er see yer--seen enough of you already."

"Go to --," (and the worsted Yankee mentioned a hot place.)

"Sorry I can't accommodate you," said the Southerner, "but old Satan has sent word to Gen'l Lee that the place was so full of Yankees already, they have to hang on by the window sills, and he won't take in Southern men no how."

Such is one of the thousand interviews which the "voice of the waters," could it speak, would tell of this strange phase of the war.

The Yankee Congress is employed, diligently, its few remaining days in organizing and consolidating a despotism as pure and unmixed as that of Russia. Bills are pending, and likely to become laws, to vest in the Executive the absolute control of the militia of the States, and to crush the State banks and vest the whole of the money power of the country in the Executive department. Either, if submitted to by the people, will convert them into serfs, and render the Federal chief an irresponsible autocrat. The military bill empowers him to draft all the militia for two years, and to be considered in service and subject to martial law from the moment of drafting. The money bill subjects the banks to a tax under which they cannot live, and makes the money which the President may issue the sole medium of exchange and standard of value.

The disaffected parties are already taking the alarm at this stupendous despotism. Vallandingham, in a recent speech at Newark, New Jersey, asked: "Will you send out your sons again to the battle field? [Overwhelming cries No, never.] Shall they be conscripted to carry on this war for two years more, and for the negro? [No, never.]"

On the enforcement of this law will come the practical issue, that will test the sincerity of those Northern men who profess abhorrence of the war and the objects for which it is waged. We have not much faith in any of the Eastern Yankees, notwithstanding the valorous, "No, never" of New Jersey. That whole region is, we fear, too deeply corrupted for anything good ever to come from it. But we have far better hopes of the Northwest. There are Yankees there too, no doubt, and as mean as any in Boston or Newburyport. But the majority of that population are a superior race of beings. They derive their descent from Southern sources--they have not yet been wholly corrupted by Yankeeisms--they still appreciate free Government, and we will not yet despair of their showing themselves fit for something better than to be the serfs of a Yankee tyranny.--Rich. Whig.