may ''bout face;' that means whirl round. Now march! one, two,
quick time, double-quick!"

"They're stepping on my toes," cried barefooted Peter Grant.

"Hush right up, private, or I'll stand you on the bar'l."

"I wish't you would," groaned little Peter; "it hurts."

"Well, then, I shan't," said the captain, decidedly, "for 'twouldn't be
any punishin'.--Can't some of you whistle?"

Willy Snow struck up Yankee Doodle, which soon charmed the wayward feet
of the little volunteers, and set them to marching in good time.

Afterward their captain gave instructions in "groundin' arms," "stackin'
arms," "firin'," and "countin' a march," by which he meant
"countermarching." He had really read a good many pages in Infantry
Tactics, and had treasured up the military phrases with some care,
though he had but a confused idea of their meaning.

"Holler-square!" said he, when he could think of nothing else to say. Of
course he meant a "hollow square."

"Shall we holler all together?" cried a voice from the midst of the
ranks.

The owner of the voice would have been "stood on the barrel," if Horace
had been less busy thinking.

"I've forgot how they holler, as true as you live; but I reckon it's all
together, and open your mouths wide."

[Illustration: STAND BY THE FLAG.--Page 85.]

At this the young volunteers, nothing loath, gave a long, deafening
shout, which the woods caught up and echoed.

Horace scratched his head. He had seen his father drill his men, but he
could not remember that he had ever heard them scream.

A pitched battle came off next, which would have been a very peaceful
one if all the boys had not wanted to be Northerners. But the feeling
was greatly changed when Horace joined the Southern ranks, saying "he
didn't care how much he played Secesh when everybody knew he was a good
Union man, and his father was going to be a general." After this there
was no trouble about raising volunteers on the rebel side.

The whole affair ended very pleasantly, only there was some slashing
right and left with a few bits of broken glass, which were used as
swords; and several mothers had wounds to dress that night.

Mrs. Clifford heard no complaint from her little son, although his
fingers were quite ragged, and must have been painful. Horace was really
a brave boy, and always bore suffering like a hero. More than that, he
had the satisfaction of using the drops of blood for red paint; and the
first thing after su