upon his elbow before venturing reply.

"Yes; what is it, sergeant? It looks to be a beauty of a morning way
up yonder."

There was a hearty, cheery ring to his clear voice which left the
pain-racked old soldier envious.

"My God!" he growled savagely. "'T is likely to be the last any of us
will ever see. Was n't it you I heard whistling just now? One might
imagine this was to be a wedding, rather than a funeral."

"And why not, Wyman? Did n't you know they employed music at both
functions nowadays? Besides, it is not every man who is permitted to
assist at his own obsequies--the very uniqueness of such a situation
rather appeals to my sense of humor. Pretty tune, that one I was
whistling, don't you think? Picked it up on 'The Pike' in Cincinnati
fifteen years ago. Sorry I don't recall the words, or I'd sing them
for you."

The sergeant, his teeth clinched tightly to repress the pain racking
him, stifled his resentment with an evident effort. "You may be less
light-hearted when you learn that the last of our ammunition is already
in the guns," he remarked, stiffly.

"I suspected as much." And the speaker lifted himself on one elbow to
peer down the line of recumbent figures. "To be perfectly frank with
you, sergeant, the stuff has held out considerably longer than I
believed it would, judging from the way those 'dough boys' of yours
kept popping at every shadow in front of them. It 's a marvel to me,