thought of actual war, my mind reverted to my mule, the kicking brute
that was no good, and I decided to get a horse. I had got so, actually,
that I could hear bullets whistle without turning pale and having cold
chills run over me, and it seemed as though a horse was none too good
for me, so I went to the colonel and told him that a soldier couldn't
make no show on a kicking mule and I wanted a horse. I told him I
supposed, as chaplain's clerk. I should have to ride with him and his
staff on the march, and he didn't want to see as nice a looking fellow
as I was riding a kicking mule that would kick the ribs of the officers
horses, and break the officers legs. The colonel said he had not thought
of that contingency. He had enjoyed seeing me ride the mule, because I
was so patient when the mule kicked. He said they used that mule in the
regiment to teach recruits to ride. A man who could stay on that mule
could ride any horse in the regiment, and as I had been successful,
and had displayed splendid mulemanship, I should be promoted to ride a
horse, and he told the quartermaster to exchange with me and give me the
chestnut-sorrel horse that the Confederate was shot off of. I went with
the quartermaster to the corral, turned out my mule, and cornered the
beautiful horse that had been rode so proudly a few days before by my
friend, the rebel. It took six of us to catch the horse, and bridle and
saddle him, and the men about the corral said the horse was no good. He
hadn't eaten anything since being captured, and his eyes looked bad,
and he wanted to kick and bite everybody. I told them the poor horse was
homesick, that was all that ailed him. The horse was a Confederate at
heart, and he naturally had no particular love for Yankees. I remembered
that once or twice when I was riding with the rebels, after they
captured me, the young fellow on this horse patted him on the neck and
called him "Jeff", so I knew that was his name, so I led him out of the
corral away from the other fellows, where there was some grass growing,
and made up my mind I would "mash" him. After he had eaten grass a
little while, looking at me out of the corner of his eyes as though he
didn't know whether to kick my head on, or walk on me, as I sat under
a tree, I got up and patted him on the neck and said, "Well, Jeff, old
boy, how does the grass fit your stomach?"

You may talk about brute intelligence, but that horse was human. He
stopped eating, with