Baby Van Rensselaer: “Yes!” How queerly you say that!
Dear Jones (grimly): I’m rather more inclined to cry when the band makes
“Stream and forest, hill and strand,
Reverberate with ‘Dixie.’”
Baby Van Rensselaer (coldly): I’m afraid, Mr. Jones, I do not understand you. And you appear to have a very peculiar feeling about these things.
Dear Jones [rather absently]: Well, yes, it is rather a matter of feeling with me. Weak, I suppose—but the fact is, Miss Van Rensselaer, it just breaks me up to see all this. You know, the war hit me pretty hard. I lost my brother in hospital after Seven Pines—and then I lost my father, the best friend I ever had, at Gettysburg, on the hill, you know, when he was leading his regiment, and his men couldn’t make him stay back. So, you see, I wouldn’t have come here at all to-day if—if—
Baby Van Rensselaer: Oh, Mr. Jones, I’m so sorry.
Dear Jones [surprised]: Sorry? Why?
Baby Van Rensselaer: I didn’t quite understand you—but I do now. Why, you’re taking off your hat. What is it? Oh, the battle-flags!
Dear Jones: My father’s regiment.