“Oh, Samson, Samson, don’t talk about it!” sighed Fred, as he gazed right away in imagination at the scene his rough companion painted.
“Can’t help it, sir. Feel as if I must. Steady, my lad! you mustn’t break away for a gallop. We’re soldiers now.”
This was to his horse, which felt grass beneath its feet and the wind blowing, and wanted to be off.
“’Member how the rabbits used to scuttle off up there, Master Fred, and show their white tails as they popped into their holes?”
Fred nodded, and let his reins fall upon his horse’s neck.
“And that there hole up in the Rill, sir? ’Member how I come and found your clothes up beside it, and fetched my garden line to fish for your rope?”
“Oh yes, yes, yes!” said Fred, sadly.
“And we never went down that place again, after all, sir. Well, let’s hope that we shall some day. I’m getting tired of soldiering, and feel as if it would be a real pleasure to have a mug of our cider again, and pull up a weed.”
“I’m afraid I am getting tired of it, too, Samson; but I cannot see the end.”
“And on a fine day like this, sir, with the blue sky up above, and the green grass down below, and the birds singing, it’s just lovely. Why, I feel so well and happy this morning that I do believe, if he was here, I could go so far as to shake hands with my brother Nat.”