flinching, and without apparently appreciating the seriousness of the
game.

There was a red-headed, freckled peasant boy, in dirty petticoats,
who guided Bass and myself to the trenches. He was one of the few
peasants who had not run away, and as he had driven sheep over every
foot of the hills, he was able to guide the soldiers through those
places where they were best protected from the bullets of the enemy.
He did this all day, and was always, whether coming or going, under a
heavy fire; but he enjoyed that fact, and he seemed to regard the
battle only as a delightful change in the quiet routine of his life,
as one of our own country boys at home would regard the coming of the
spring circus or the burning of a neighbor's barn. He ran dancing
ahead of us, pointing to where a ledge of rock offered a natural
shelter, or showing us a steep gully where the bullets could not
fall. When they came very near him he would jump high in the air,
not because he was startled, but out of pure animal joy in the
excitement of it, and he would frown importantly and shake his red
curls at us, as though to say: "I told you to be careful. Now, you
see. Don't let that happen again." We met him many times during the
two days, escorting different companies of soldiers from one point to
another, as though they were visitors to his estate. When a shell
broke, he would pick up a piece and present it to the officer in
charge, as though it were a flower he had plucked from his own
garden, and which he wanted his guest to carry away with him as a
souvenir of his visit. Some one asked the boy if his father and
mother knew where he was, and he replied, with amusement, that they
had run away and deserted him, and that he had remained because he
wished to see what a Turkish army looked like. He was a much more
plucky boy than the overrated Casabianca, who may have stood on the