one's conscience little chance.

They went back to the meeting-room again; chairs were shifted, and
little groups formed, and cigars and pipes brought out. They moved the
precious battle-flags forward, and some one produced a bugle and a
couple of drums; then the walls of the place shook, as the whole
company burst forth:--

"Bring the good old bugle, boys! we'll sing another song--Sing it with
a spirit that will start the world along--Sing it as we used to sing
it, fifty thousand strong,--While we were marching through Georgia!"

It was wonderful to witness the fervour with which they went through
this rollicking chant--whose spirit we miss because we hear it too
often. They were not skilled musicians--they could only sing loud; but
the fire leaped into their eyes, and they swayed with the rhythm, and
sang! Montague found himself watching the old blind soldier, who sat
beating his foot in time, upon his face the look of one who sees
visions.

And then he noticed another man, a little, red-faced Irishman, one of
the drummers. The very spirit of the drum seemed to have entered into
him--into his hands and his feet, his eyes and his head, and his round
little body. He played a long roll between the verses, and it seemed as
if he must surely be swept away upon the wings of it. Catching
Montague's eye, he nodded and smiled; and after that, every once in a
while their eyes would meet and exchange a greeting. They sang "The
Loyal Legioner" and "The Army Bean" and "John Brown's Body" and "Tramp,
tramp, tramp, the boys are marching"; all the while the drum rattled
and thundered, and the little drummer laughed and sang, the very
incarnation of the care-free spirit of the soldier!

They stopped for a while, and the little man came over and was
introduced. Lieutenant O'Day was his name; and after he had left,
General Prentice leaned over to Montague and told him a story. "That
little man," he said, "began as a drummer-boy in my regiment, and went
all through the war in my brigade; and two years ago I met him on the
street one cold winter night, as thin as I am, and shivering in a
summer overcoat. I took him to dinner with me and watched him eat, and
I made up my mind there was something wrong. I made him take me home,
and do you know, the man was starving! He had a little tobacco shop,
and he'd got into trouble--the trust had taken away his trade. And he
had a sick wife, and a daughter clerking at six dollars a week!"

The