The first is my stove.
My stove is made of a camp kettle.
It has such a vile draught that I think of giving it a lesson in drawing. Joke. Perhaps you remember it of old in the jolly old Studio Building in Tenth Street. By the way how is Whittredge?—I believe he imported that joke from Rome where he learned it of Jules de Montalant who acquired it of Chapman who got it from Gibson, who learned it of Thorwaldsen who picked it up from David who stole it from the elder Vernet to whom it had come down from Michael Angelo who cribbed it from Albert Dürer who sucked it somehow from Giotto.
I wish you could see that stove. I cook in it and on it and all around the sides and underneath it. I wash my clothes in it, make punch in it, write on it, when cold sit on it, play poker on it, and occasionally use it for a trunk. It also gives music, for though it don't draw, it can sing.
My second friend is my Iron Bride—the sword. She is a useful creeter. Little did I think, when you, my beloved friends, presented me with that deadly brand, how useful she would prove in getting at the brandy, when I should have occasion to 'decap' a bottle. She kills pigs, cuts cheese, toasts pork, slices lemons, stirs coffee, licks the horses, scares Secesh, and cuts lead pencils. In a word, if I wished to give useful advice to a cavalry officer, it would be not to go to war without a sword.
A revolver is also extremely utilitarious. A large revolver, mind you, with six corks. Mine contains red and black pepper, salt, vinegar, oil, and ketchup—when I'm in a hurry. A curious circumstance once 'transpired,' as the missionaries say, in relation to this article of the quizzeen. All the barrels were loaded—which I had forgotten—and so proceeded to give it an extra charge of groceries. * * *
It was a deadly fray. Rang tang bang, paoufff! We fought as if it had been a Sixth Ward election. Suddingly I found myself amid a swarm of my country's foes. Sabres slashed at me, and in my rage I determined to exterminate something. Looking around from mere force of habit to see that there were no police about, I drew my revolver and aimed at Jim Marrygold of Charleston, whom I had last seen owling it in New Orleans, four years ago. He and Dick Middletongue of Natchez (who carved the Butcher's Daughter at Florence, and who is now a Secesh major), came down with their cheese knives, evidently intending to carve me. Such language you never heard, such a diluvium of profanity, such double-shotted d—ns! I drew my pistol at once, and gave Dick a blizzard. The ball went through his ear—the red pepper took his eyes, while Jim received the shot in his hat, and with it the sweet oil. In this sweet state of affairs, Charley Ruffem of Savannah was descending on me with his sabre. (He was the man who said my browns were all put in with guano.) I put him out of the way of criticism with a third barrel—killed him dead, and salted him.
The best of this war is, it enables me to exterminate so many bad artists.
The worst of it is that Charley owed me five dollars.
A fifth Secesh now made his appearance. We went it on the sword, and fought—for further particulars see Ivanhoe, volume second. My foe was Rawley Chivers, of Tuscumbia, Ala., and as the mischief would have it, he knew all my guards and cuts. We used to fence together, and had had more than one trial at 'fertig-los!' on the old Pauk-boden in Heidelberg.