Cheer up, comrades, they will come!
And beneath the starry flag
We shall breathe the air again—"
"What's that?" asked he, ceasing his song before finishing the stanza, and rising up on his elbow.
"I asked whether you could tell me what a shade-tail is?"
"A shade-tail! Never heard of it before. Don't believe there is any such thing. I know what a buck-tail is, though. There's one," said he, pulling a fine specimen out from under his knapsack. "That just came in the mail while you were gone. The old buck that chased the flies with that brush for many a year was shot up among the Buffalo mountains last winter, and my father bought his tail of the man who killed him, and has sent it to me. It cost him just one dollar."
Buck-tails were in great demand with us in those days, and happy indeed was the man who could secure so fine a specimen as Andy now proudly held in his hand.
"But isn't it rather large?" inquired I. "And it's nearly all white, and would make an excellent mark for some Johnny to shoot at, eh?"
"Never you fear for that. 'Old Trusty' up there," said he, pointing to his gun hanging along underneath the ridge-pole of the tent,—"'Old Trusty' and I will take care of Johnny Reb."
"But, Andy," continued I, "you haven't answered my question yet. What is a shade-tail?"