rch.

"Naw, that warn't Marse Robert," replied a private, limping with bare feet
over the border of dried grass. "'Twas a blamed, blank, bottomless well,
that's what 'twas. I let my canteen down on a string and it never came back
no mo'."

Dan lowered his eyes, and critically regarded the tattered banner of the
regiment, covered with the names of the battles over which it had hung
unfurled. "Tennessee, aren't you?" he asked, following the flag.

The private shook his head, and stooped to remove a pebble from between his
toes.

"Naw, we ain't from Tennessee," he drawled. "We've had the measles--that's
what's the matter with us."

"You show it, by Jove," said Dan, laughing. "Step quickly, if you
please--this is the cleanest brigade in the army."

"Huh!" exclaimed the private, eying them with contempt. "You look like it,
don't you, sonny? Why, I'd ketch the mumps jest to look at sech a set o'
rag-a-muffins!"

He went on, still grunting, while Dan rose to his feet and slung his
blanket from his shoulder. "Look here, does anybody know where we're going
anyway?" he asked of the blue sky.

"I seed General Jackson about two miles up," replied a passing countryman,
who had led his horse into the corn field. "Whoopee! he was going at a
God-a'mighty pace, I tell you. If he keeps that up he'll be over the
Potomac before sunset."

"Then we are going into Maryland!" cried Jack Powell, jumping to his feet.
"Hurrah for Maryland! We're going to Maryland, God bless her!"

The shouts passed down the road and the Maryland regiment in front sent
back three rousing cheers.

"By Jove, I hope I'll find some shoes there," said Dan, shaking the sand
from his ragged boots, and twisting the shreds of his stockings about his
feet. "I've had to punch holes in my soles and lace them with shoe strings
to the upper leather, or they'd have dropped off long ago."

"Well, I'll begin by making love to a seamstress when I'm over the
Potomac," remarked Welch, getting upon his feet. "I'm decidedly in need of
a couple of patches."

"You make love! You!" roared Jack Powell. "Why, you're the kind of thing
they set up in Maryland to keep the crows away. Now if it were Beau, there,
I see some sense in it--for, I'll be bound, he's slain more hearts than
Yankees in this campaign. The women always drain out their last drop of
buttermilk when he goes on a forage."

"Oh, I don't set up to be a popinjay," retorted Welch witheringly.

"Popinjay, the de