The above is one of the thousand annoyances to which I am subjected, and nothing but my consuming patriotism could ever induce me to submit to it. I overheard a spectator inquire of the drill-sergeant one day:
"Do you drill that fat man all at once?"
"No," he returned, in an awful whisper; "I drill him by squads!"
I could have drilled him, if I had had a bayonet.
Specifications have been published in regard to my uniform, and contractors advertised for; the making will be let out to the lowest bidder. In case the Guards are ordered to take the field, a special commissary will be detailed to draw my rations.
That reminds me of a harrowing incident. On last night's drill an old farmer, who dropped in to see us drill, took me aside, and said he wanted to sell me a yoke of powerful oxen.
"My ancient agriculturist," said I, smiling at his simplicity, "I have no use for oxen."
"Perhaps not at present," quoth he, "but if you go to war you will want them."
"For what?" said I, considerably annoyed.
"Want 'em to draw your rations!"