She was nineteen, the captain was forty-five, and upon gazing at the rosy cheeks of his Gwendolen he would frequently assert that a man was always as young as he felt.
The Secretary, after inspecting the military post, dined with the mayor of the neighboring town. At this meal, when a cold bottle had been finished, the mayor went so far as to inquire: “Say, who was Aspasia?”
But the Secretary answered: “What a wonderful land is ours and what a beautiful city is yours.”
II. The Energy is Transmitted
The expectations of Sergeant Jones were entirely unfulfilled. Much experience in taking charge of recruits upon long railway journeys had taught him that their earnest faces were not always more stirring than the stars upon Old Glory; he knew that you do not invariably find that sort of face for thirteen dollars a month. He had generally been obliged to watch their purchases at way stations, he had not seldom been forced to remove bottles of strong spirits from their possession, and he had almost always found it necessary to teach some of them a lesson in obedience. Judge therefore of the sergeant’s amazement when, after the first half day of journey, a long overgrown ruddy boy approached him and asked in unsoiled Southern accents: “Please, sah, can we sing?”
“Sing?” said Jones. “Sing what?”
“‘Pull foah the shoah, sailah.’ We have learned to do it in parts back in our home.”
“Yes,” said Jones, “I guess you can sing that—in parts or as a whole.”
“We sing it as a whole in parts, sah,” explained the recruit with simplicity.
“Your name Anniston?” Jones inquired, abruptly suspicious.