I was frightened, my boy, and had just commenced the appropriate prayer of "Now I lay me down to sleep," when suddenly an idea struck me, and I acted on it immediately.
"Hello!" says I, "Johnny, didn't you hear the old Hall kettle strike for the Fourth District? Come along with me and help to get the old dog-cart on a jump, or Nine's roosters will get the rail-road track and have the old butt in Christie street before we can swing the old masheen over a pig's whisker."
"Bully for you!" says he, dropping his musket, all in a quiver, and commencing to roll up his pantaloons. "I've got a bet on that ere fire; and ef I don't take the starch out of that ere Nine's feller what wears good clothes and don't do nothing—you may just take my boots."
It was all the force of habit, you see; and if I hadn't stopped that Zouave, I really believe he'd have run clean into the bosom of all the first families, looking for the Fourth District and Nine's feller!
The Mackerel brigade have got their new uniforms, and they are not the martial garments it would do to get fat in. High private Samivel Green put his on, partially, yesterday; but, it's a positive fact, my boy, that by the time he got his coat buttoned, his pantaloons were all worn out. I managed to get on one of the uniforms myself, and the first time I went into the open air all the buttons blew off.
I've just returned from visiting the most mournful sight that ever made a man feel as though he'd been peeling onions all the week, and grating horse-radish on Sunday. It was the first dying scene of one of the "Pet Lammers," down at Alexandria, and, as one of Five's chaps remarks, it was enough to make the eye of a darning-needle weep, and bring tears to the cheek of the Greek slave. Jim was the only name of the sufferer, and if he ever had any other, it had slipped his memory, though his affectionate relatives sometimes called him "Shorty," by way of endearment. He was out on picket-guard the night before, when the Southern Confederacy attempted to pass him. He challenged the intruder, and called to his comrades for help; but, before the latter could arrive, the Southern Confederacy drew a masked battery from his pocket, and fired six heavy balls through the head of the unfortunate Zouave, nearly fracturing his skull, and breaking several panes of glass. The cowardly miscreant then fled to an adjacent fence, closely followed by Sherman's Artillery.
Upon discovering that he was wounded, Mr. Shorty examined the cap on his musket, and stood it carefully against a tree, buttoned his jacket to his neck, and asked a comrade for a chew of tobacco. Too full of emotion to speak, the comrade handed a gentlemanly plug to the dying man, who cut about half an ounce from it, placed it thoughtfully in his mouth, and then stuffed his handkerchief carefully in the hole in his forehead made by the balls.
"Is any of my brains hanging out?" he asked of another of his comrades.
"No, Shorty," answered the other, bursting into tears; "you never had any to hang out."