"She's the only one left us, too. Preston and Moncure took the rest with them, and they say they've nearly used 'em up chasing you Yanks."
Her unlady-like demeanor and exulting allusion to the Rebel cavalry tested to the utmost the Sergeant's qualities as a gentleman. A dicker for a pair of chickens, accomplished by his substituting a little ground coffee for a great sum in greenbacks, soon
brought about a better understanding, however, on the part of the damsel.
A few hours later saw the Adjutant and our poetical Lieutenant snugly seated on split-bottomed chairs in a dirty kitchen. Random conversation, in which the women let slip no opportunity of reminding their visitors of the soldierly qualities of the Rebels, interrupted by the occasional bleating of sheep and bawling of calves in the cellar, made the evening's entertainment novel and interesting. So much so that at a late hour the Lieutenant, who had invested closely the younger of the two, said, half sighing, as he gave her a fond look,
"With thee conversing, I forget all time,
All——"
"Wall, I reckon I don't," broke in the matter-of-fact young lady. "Sal, just kick yon door around." As Sal did her bidding, and the full moon on the face of an old fashioned corner clock was disclosed, she continued, "It's just ten minutes after eleven, and you Yanks had better be off."
Although the Adjutant was
"Like steel amid the din of arms;
Like wax when with the fair,"
this lack of appreciation of poetic sentiment so abruptly shown, brought him out in a roar, and completely disconcerted the Lieutenant. They both retired speedily, and long after, the circumstance was one of the standing jokes of the camp.
One of the most prominent and eagerly wished-for occurrences in camp, is the arrival of the mail. The well filled bag, looking much like one of the bags of documents forwarded by Congressmen for private purposes at Uncle Sam's expense, was emptied out on the sod that evening in front of the Colonel's marquee,