rangers devils 2018

"If I go to sleep," I said,--"you know how I dream. I shall have one of those dreams of mine to carry around in my memory for a year, like a bullet in my back." So there the dear fellow had sat all night to give me my hourly powders of reassurance that I could be a quartermaster's clerk without shame.

"I suppose we might call him a romanticist," said I, "might we not?"

"Cock-a-doodle-doo," thought I; "if those are not the same hundred-dollar boots I saw yesterday morning, at least they are their first cousins!"

A sweet color was I. "Yes, that's what I said; Cockerel. Isn't your last name Cockerel?"

That piece of a word was scored out and "dangers" written in its place. The missive ended all too soon, with the statement that I was requested to call, on my way out of camp, at the side gallery of the house-- Sessions's--and let the writer and her sister and her cousin and her father and her aunt see me in my new uniform and bid me good-bye.

"Mis-ter Smith! you wrote that?--to-day! Wh'--who is she?"

"What do you mean?" I demanded. "To whom are you pledged for any such--"

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