"Oh, yes," the officer humored him. "We're all one now."
"Wail then," rejoined Johnny Reb slowly, "didn't them darned rebs jest geen us hell sometimes?"
City Point, on the James river, was the landing for transports with soldiers released from northern prisons, after parole. A bustling, self-important major of United States volunteers was at one time there, in charge. One day a most woe-begone, tattered and emaciated "Johnnie" sat swinging his shoeless feet from a barrel, awaiting his turn.
"It isn't far to Richmond," suddenly remarked the smart major, to nobody in particular.
"Reck'n et's neer onto three thousin' mile," drawled the Confed. weakly.
"Nonsense! You must be crazy," retorted the officer staring.
"Wail, I ent a-reck'nin' adzact," was the slow reply—"Jest tho't so, kinder."
"Oh! you did? And pray why?"
"Cos et's took'n you'uns nigh onto foore year to git thar from Wash'nton," was the settling retort.
In the provost-marshal's department at Richmond, shortly after surrender, was the neatest and most irrepressible of youths. Never discourteous and often too sympathetic, he was so overcurious as to be what sailors describe as "In everybody's mess and nobody's watch." One day a quaint, Dickensesque old lady stood hesitant in the office doorway. Short, wrinkled and bent with age, she wore a bombazine gown of antique cut—its whilom black red-rusty from time's dye. But "Aunt Sallie" was a character in Henrico county; and noted withal for the sharpest of tongues and a fierce pair of undimmed eyes, which now shone under the dingy-brown poke bonnet. Toward her sallied the flippant young underling, with the greeting: