"He's not wounded, general," remarked an officer, standing by.
"Then, why is his head bandaged up so?" asked the venerable veteran.
"Oh!" says the officer, "that's only one of the shirts made by the patriotic wimmen of America."
In about five minutes after this conversation, I saw the venerable veteran, the wounded hero, and the officer taking the Oath together.
The Seventy-ninth, Highlanders, came to town early last week, and are the finest body of Scotchmen that were ever half kilt by uniform alone. My heart warmed to them when I first saw them; and, with arms outspread, I greeted the gallant fellow nearest to me. With a tear of gratified pride in his eye, he exclaimed:
"Auld lang syne and Scots who ha'e; but gang awa' wi' Heeland laddie thegither o' John Anderson my Jo; and, moreover, we'll tak' a right gude willie wacht for muckle twa and braw chiel."
I told him I thought so myself.
I'm sorry to say, my boy, that some members of this splendid regiment are badly off for trowsers, and shock my modesty tremendously. They probably forgot them in their hurry to get to the war, and the Union Pretence Committee ought to send them out an assortment of peg-tops at once. "Not that I hobject to the hinnocent hamusements of the Highlanders, but that decency and propriety must be preserved within the limits of the army"—as the British show-man observed.
I took a trip down to Alexandria the other night, to see how the Fire Zouaves were getting along, and came pretty near getting into trouble with one of Five's screamers. He was on guard; and when he challenged me, the pass-word slipped my memory.
"Drop that ere butt," says he, bringing his musket to a charge, "or I'll give yer a taste of the old masheen. Who—wha—what are yer coughin' at—sa-a-ay?"