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"Well, no. It's the horse he captured the time he got the Yankee who had him prisoner."

In the vocabulary of a prig, but in the wrath of a fishwoman, I execrated Scott Gholson; his jealousies, his disclosures, his religion, his mispronunciations; and Ned Ferry--that cockerel! Here was I in the barrel, and able only to squeal in irate terror at whoever looked down upon me. I could have crawled under a log and died. At the door of the Major's tent I paused to learn and joy of one to whom comes reprieve when the rope is on his neck, I overheard Harry Helm, the General's nephew and aide de-camp, who had been with us, telling what a howling good joke Smith had just got off on Gholson!

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Breathe, O! breathe to me, as these love-languid skies To yon twilight star breathe, Return, return!

"Good-bye,--Dick."

"Ferry's scouts." He scrutinized me. "What command do you say you--"

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