While at Flint Hill, another stirring scene took place of quite a different nature.  In front of the Third Regiment was a beautiful stretch of road, and this was selected as a course for a race to be run between the horse of Captain Mitchell of the Louisiana Tigers and that of the Colonel of a Virginia regiment of cavalry.  The troops now so long inactive, nothing to break the monotony between drills, guard duty, and picketing, waited with no little anxiety the coming of the day that was to test the metal of the little grey from the Pelican State and the sorrel from the Old Dominion.  Word had gone out among all the troopers that a race was up, and all lovers of the sport came in groups, companies, and regiments to the place of rendezvous.  Men seemed to come from everywhere, captains, colonels, and even generals graced the occasion with their presence.  Never before in our army had so many distinguished individuals congregated for so trivial an occasion.  There was Wheat, fat, clean shaven, and jolly, his every feature indicating the man he was—­bold as a lion, fearless, full of life and frolic as a school boy, but who had seen war in almost every clime under the sun.  There was Turner Ashby, his eyes flashing fire from under his shaggy eyebrows, his long black beard and flowing locks, looking more like a brigand than one of the most daring cavaliers of the Confederate Army.  Fitzhugh Lee, too, was there, with colonels, majors, and captains without number.  Nothing seemed farther from the horizon of these jolly men than thoughts of the triumphs of war.  Captain Mitchell’s horse was more on the pony order than a racer, but it was said by those who knew that on more occasions than one the pony had thrown dirt into the eyes of the fastest horse in the Crescent City, and the Louisianans were betting on him to a man.  The wiry sorrel was equally a favorite with the Virginians, while the South Carolinians were divided between the two.  After a great amount of jockeying, usual on such occasions, judges were appointed, distance measured, horses and riders in their places, and hundreds of men stretched along the side of the road to witness the heated race.  No little amount of Confederate money had been put upon the race, although it was understood to be merely a friendly one, and for amusement only.  When the drum sounded, the two horses almost leaped into the air, and sped away like the wind, “little grey” shooting away from her larger adversary like a bullet, and came flying down the track like a streak, about a length ahead of the Virginia horse.  The favorites on the Louisianan rent the air with their yells, hats went into the air, while the friends of the Virginian shouted like mad to the rider:  “Let him out, let him out.”  When the distance was about half run he was “let out;” the rowels went into the side and the whip came down upon the flanks of the thoroughly aroused racer, and the Virginian began forging to the front, gaining at every leap.  Now he is neck and neck, spur