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"Are you not a New Orleans boy?" she asked as I lifted my képi and drew rein.

I snatched the document from my bosom, into which I had thrust it to seize the General's hand "Oh, Gholson!" I said, in deep-toned grief, as I looked up from the superscription, "is that honest!"

"Good-bye." I could barely hear it.

"Sa-ay! I'll wrastle you fo' them-ah clo'es."

Glad was I then to be on a true cavalryman's horse that answered the closing of my left leg and moved steadily around till I could see down the bridge. Oliver, after a step or two, stopped. "Turn!" I yelled, and swelled. "One, two,--"

"Yes," I dishonestly responded, "his polished irreligion--"

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