“White man,” said, the soldier again, “me no care one cent’ bout this particklar Cuffee; but white man bound to respeck this uniform (striking his breast). White man, move on!”
A Virginia rebel, who has issued a book giving his experience as a prisoner in the hands of the Federals at Point Lookout and Elmira, tells the following story:—
“The boys are laughing at the summons which S., one of my fellow-Petersburgers, got to-day from a negro sentinel. S. had on when captured, and I suppose still possesses, a tall beaver of the antique pattern considered inseparable from extreme respectability in the last decade and for many a year before. While wandering around the enclosure, seeking, I suspect, ‘what he might devour,’ he accidentally stepped beyond the ‘dead line,’ and was suddenly arrested by a summons from the nearest negro on the parapet, who seemed to be in doubt whether so well-dressed a man could be a ‘reb,’ and therefore whether he should be shot at once.
“White man, you b’long in dar?”
“Yes.”
“Well, ain’t you got no better sense dan to cross dat line?”
“I did not notice the line.”
“Well, you had better notice it, and dat quick, or I’ll blow half dat nail-kag off!”
The following doggerel was composed by a drummer-boy, aged thirteen, who had been a slave, and was without education. He sung it to the One Hundred and Seventh Regiment United-States colored troops, to which he was attached:—
“Captain Fiddler’s come to town