boys. 'Twas a lovely sight, and he had been there for two mortal hours
before we boys got down--there was the Kansas boys and the Iowa boys
and some from Missouri, carrying the old flag we fought under at
Wilson's Creek. Watts saw us down the street and heard the old band
play; a dozen other bands had played that tune that day; but Billy
Dorman's tuba had its own kind of a rag in it, and Watts knew it. I
seen him a-waving his hat at the boys, almost as soon as they saw him,
and as the band came nearer and nearer I saw the little man's face
begin to crack, and as he looked down the line and saw them Kansas and
Iowa soldiers, I seen him give one whoop, and throw that plug hat
hellwards over the crowd and jump down from that band stand like a
wild man and make for the gang. He was blubbering like a calf when he
caught step with me, and he yelled so as to reach my ears above the
roar of the crowds and the blatting of the bands--yelled with his
voice ripped to shreds that fluttered out ragged from the torn bosom
of him, 'Jake--Jake--how I would like to get drunk--just this
once!' And we went on down the avenue together--him bareheaded,
hay-footing and straw-footing it the same as in the old days."

Jake always paused at this point and shook his head sorrowfully, and
then continued dolefully: "But 'twas no use; he was caught and took
away; some says it was to see the pictures in the White House, and
some says it was to a reception given by the Relief Corps to the
officers elect of the Ladies' Aid, where he was pawed over by a lot of
old girls who says, 'Yes, I'm so glad--what name please--oh,
--McHurdie, surely not _the_ McHurdie; O dear me--Sister McIntire,
come right here, this is _the_ McHurdie--you know I sang your song
when I was a little girl'--which was a lie, unless Watts wrote it for
the Mexican War, and he didn't. And then some one else comes waddling
up and says, 'O dear me, Mr. McHurdie--you don't know how glad I am
to see the author of "Home, Sweet Home,"' and Watts blinks his eyes
and pleads not guilty; and she says, 'O dear, excuse the mistake;
well, I'm sure you wrote something?' And Watts, being sick of love, as
Solomon says in his justly celebrated and popular song, Watts looks
through his Sunday glasses and doesn't see a blame thing, and smiles
and says calmly, 'No, madam, you mistake--I am a simple harness
maker.' And she sidles off looking puzzled, to make room for the one
from Massachusetts, who stares