Washington, D.C., August —, 1861.
The Mackerel Brigade, of which I have the honor to be a member, was about the worst demoralized of all the brigades that covered themselves with glory and perspiration at the skrimmage of Bull Run. In the first place, it never had much morals, and when it came to be demoralized, it hadn't any; so that ever since the disaster, the peasantry in the neighborhood of the camp have been in constant mourning for departed pullets; and one venerable rustic complains that the Mackerel pickets milk all his cows every night, and come to borrow his churn in the morning. When one of the colonels heard the venerable rustic make this accusation, he says to him:
"Would you like to be revenged on the men who milk your animiles?" The venerable rustic took a chew of tobacco, and says he: "I wouldn't like anything better." The colonel looked at him sadly for a moment, and then remarked: "Aged stranger, you are already revenged. The men who milked your animiles are all from New York, where they had been accustomed to drink milk composed principally of Croton water. Upon drinking the pure article furnished by your gentle beastesses, they were all taken violently sick, and are now lying at the point of illness, expecting every moment to be their first." The venerable rustic was so affected by this intelligence, that he immediately went home in tears.
The new bugle drill is a very good idea, my boy, and our lads will probably become accustomed to it by the time they get used to it. The colonel of Regiment Five likes it so much that he has substituted the bugle for the drum, even. The other morning, when he tried it on for the first time, I was just entering the tent of one of the captains, to take the Oath with him, when the bugle sounded the order to turn out.
"Ah!" says the captain, when he heard it, "we're going to have fish for breakfast at last. I hope its porgies," says he: "for I'm uncommon fond of porgies."
"Why, what are you talking about?" says I.
"You innocent lamb," says he, "didn't you hear that ere fish-horn. It said 'porgies,' as plain as could be."
"Why, that's the bugle," says I, "and it sounded the order to turn out."
He took his disappointment very severely, my boy, for he was really very fond of porgies.
By invitation of a well-known official, I visited the Navy-Yard yesterday, and witnessed the trial of some newly-invented rifled cannon. The trial was of short duration, and the jury brought in a verdict of "innocent of any intent to kill."