"Wa' dat yo's sain' now?" interrupted Clarissa Sophia. "Yo' say Ise jess ekal as yo' is?"
"Yes; I said so," was the sharp retort, "and I can prove it!"
"Ho! 'Tain't no need," replied the lately disenthralled. "Reck'n I is, sho' nuff. But does yo' say dat Ise good as missus?—my missus?"
"Certainly you are!" This with asperity.
"Den Ise jess gwine out yere, rite off!" cried Clarissa Sophia, suiting action to word—"Ef Ise good as my missus, I'se goin' ter quit; fur I jess know she ent 'soshiatin' wid no sich wite trash like you is!"
And so—under all skies and among all colors—the war dragged its weary length out; amid sufferings and sacrifices, which may never be recorded; and which were still illumined by the flashes of unquenchable humor—God's tonic for the heart!
Had every camp contained its Froissart—had every social circle held its Boswell—what a record would there be, for reading by generations yet unborn!
But—when finished, as this cramped and quite unworthy chronicle of random recollections is—then might the reader still quote justly her of Sheba, exclaiming:
"And behold! the one-half of the greatness of thy wisdom was not told me!"