"Hello, Sonny, what command?" Ned cried.
"Company E, 12th Virginia, Mahone's brigade!" he proudly answered.
"Yes, damn you," a soldier drawled from the grass, "and you've pulled your boots off, holdin' 'em in yer hand, ready to run now!"
The laugh ran along the line and the boy hurried on to escape the chaff.
A well-known chaplain rode along a narrow path on the hillside. He was mounted on an old horse whose hip bones protruded like two deadly fangs. A footsore Confederate was hobbling as fast as he could in front of him, glancing back over his shoulder now and then uneasily.
"You needn't be afraid, my friend," the parson called, "I'm not going to run over you."
"I know you ain't," the soldier laughed, "but ef I wuz ter let you pass me, and that thing wuz ter wobble I'll be doggoned ef I wouldn't be gored ter death!"
The preacher reined his steed in with dignity and spoke with wounded pride:
"My friend, this is a better horse than our Lord rode into Jerusalem on!"
The soldier stepped up quickly, opened the animal's mouth and grinned: