Then Sanford and I would pass the wink and go at it tooth and
nail. It was ridiculous, arguing the toss on a long-gone-by
small-time scrap like the Civil War with the greatest show in
history going on all around us. Anyway the Tommies loved it and
would fairly howl with delight when we got to going good.

It is strange, but with so many Americans in the British service, I
ran up against very few. I remember one night when we were making a
night march from one village to another, we stopped for the
customary ten-minutes-in-the-hour rest. Over yonder in a field
there was a camp of some kind,--probably field artillery. There was
dim light of a fire and the low murmur of voices. And then a fellow
began to sing in a nice tenor:

Bury me not on the lone prairie
Where the wild coyotes howl o'er me.
Bury me down in the little churchyard
In a grave just six by three.

The last time I had heard that song was in New Orleans, and it was
sung by a wild Texan. So I yelled, "Hello there, Texas."

He answered, "Hello, Yank. Where from?"

I answered, "Boston."

"Give my regards to Tremont Street and go to hell," says he. A gale
of laughter came out of the night. Just then we had the order to
fall in, and away we went. I'd like to know sometime who that chap