Now an impressive pause--then the bugle sang "TAPS"--translatable,
this time, into "Good-bye, and God keep us all!" for taps is the
soldier's nightly release from duty, and farewell: plaintive,
sweet, pathetic, for the morning is never sure, for him; always it
is possible that he is hearing it for the last time. . . .

[TAPS]

. . . Then the bands turned their instruments towards Cathy and
burst in with that rollicking frenzy of a tune, "Oh, we'll all get
blind drunk when Johnny comes marching home--yes, we'll all get
blind drunk when Johnny comes marching home!" and followed it
instantly with "Dixie," that antidote for melancholy, merriest and
gladdest of all military music on any side of the ocean--and that
was the end. And so--farewell!

I wish you could have been there to see it all, hear it all, and
feel it: and get yourself blown away with the hurricane huzza that
swept the place as a finish.

When we rode away, our main body had already been on the road an
hour or two--I speak of our camp equipage; but we didn't move off
alone: when Cathy blew the "advance" the Rangers cantered out in
column of fours, and gave us escort, and were joined by White Cloud
and Thunder-Bird in all their gaudy bravery, and by Buffalo Bill
and four subordinate scouts. Three miles away, in the Plains, the
Lieutenant-General halted, sat her horse like a military statue,
the bugle at her lips, and put the Rangers through the evolutions
for half an hour; and finally, when she blew the "charge," she led