of some ladies,
I think. Ladies! I admire you very much, for the very many things
wherein you are most admirable, but why, oh! why, in the name of the
immortals, will you, why will you present flags? Don't do it any more,
please. They are always packed up in a box and left somewhere almost as
soon as your handkerchiefs have ceased waving, your soprano hurrahs
ceased ringing; or else they are given to some pet officer for a
coverlet. They cost a great deal of money; they oblige the poor soldiers
to endure a mort of flatulent oratory at a parade rest; and they force
the poor colonel, in a great perspiration, to stumble through a few
feeble, ineffectual, and disjointed words of thanks, which he committed
to memory last night from the original, written for him by the adjutant
or the young regimental poet, but of which he has forgotten almost every
other word. The wise old Trojan says, speaking of the horse (I get my
quotations from the newspapers, you may be sure):

'Timeo Danaos, et dona ferentes;'

implying that he is opposed to going into that speculation in wooden
horseflesh, because he fears the Greeks, even when they bring gifts.
Just so, I fear the ladies, especially when they present flags. Remember
_Punch's_ advice to young persons about to be married? _'Don't!'_

The Seventh, after going through the usual evening parade, and a few
simple man[oe]uvres, formed square, facing inward, with General Thomas
and the oil-skin sausage that contained the new colors, and all the
regimental officers, in the centre. General Thomas's feeble pipes
sounded faintly enough for about half an hour, during which time no man
in the ranks heard more than a dozen words. Then Colonel Lefferts
responded in a few inaudible, but no doubt very appropriate remarks.
Then 'the boys,' seeing that the time had come, cheered lustily, after
the hypothetical manner of the rocket. But there was one thing we did
hear, standing on tiptoe, and straining every ear. The Seventh was to go
somewhere. The crisis of the war had come. The Seventh was going to
shoot at it. Their thirty days were almost out; but they were going to
be shot at, just like any of us three-months men.

To leave their canned fruits, and milk, and fresh eggs, and board
floors, and a stroll on the avenue in the afternoon, and go where glory
waited for them! Happy, happy gray-breasts! We wandered enviously round
the excited camp, and talked with our friends. Many were the rumors,