British neutrality, my boy, reminds me of a chap I once knew in the Sixth Ward. Two solid men, who didn't get drunk more than once a day, were running for alderman, and they both made a dead set on this chap; but they hadn't any money, and he couldn't see it.
"See here, old tops," says he, "I'll be a neutral this time; so go in porgies!"
Well, my boy, the election came off, and neither of the old tops was elected. No, sir! Now, who do you suppose was elected?
The Neutral Chap, my boy!
Mad as hornets with the hydrophobia, the two old tops went to see him, and says they:
"Confound your picture, didn't you promise to be neutral?"
The chap dipped his nose into a cocktail, and then says he, blandly:
"I was neutral, old Persimmonses. I only went to fifty Democrats, and got 'em to vote for me. Then to be neutral, I had to get fifty of the other feller's Black Republicans to do the same thing. Then I voted twelve times for myself, and went in."
It was a very beautiful case, my boy, and the old tops were only heard to utter—they were only known to exclaim—they were barely able to articulate—that neutrality didn't pay.
Early yesterday morning, my boy, Company B, Regiment 3, Mackerel Brigade, went down toward Centreville on a reconnoissance in force under Captain Bob Shorty. The Captain is a highly intellectual patriot, and don't get his sword twisted between his legs when he carries it in his hand. He led the company through the mud like a Christmas duck, until they came to a thicket in which something was seen to move.