eir forage, heaped up in the midst a
blazing fire of the fir-tree. Our humble supper was produced, and even with
the still lingering revery of the major and his happier destiny, I began to
feel comfortable.

My troopers, who probably had not been flattering their imaginations with
such _gourmand_ reflections and views, sat happily around their cheerful
blaze, chatting over the great battle they had so lately witnessed, and
mingling their stories of some comrade's prowess with sorrows for the dead
and proud hopes for the future. In the midst, upon his knees beside
the flame, was Mike, disputing, detailing, guessing, and occasionally
inventing,--all his arguments only tending to one view of the late victory:
"That it was the Lord's mercy the most of the 48th was Irish, or we
wouldn't be sitting there now!"

Despite Mr. Free's conversational gifts, however, his audience one by one
dropped off in sleep, leaving him sole monarch of the watch-fire, and--what
he thought more of--a small brass kettle nearly full of brandy-and-water.
This latter, I perceived, he produced when all was tranquil, and seemed,
as he cast a furtive glance around, to assure himself that he was the only
company present.

Lying some yards off, I watched him for about an hour, as he sat rubbing
his hands before the blaze, or lifting the little vessel to his lips; his
droll features ever and anon seeming acted upon by some passing dream
of former devilment, as he smiled and muttered some sentences in an
under-voice. Sleep at length overpowered me; but my last waking thoughts
were haunted with a singular ditty by which Mike accompanied himself as
he kept burnishing the buttons of my jacket before the fire, now and then
interrupting the melody by a recourse to the copper.

"Well, well; you're clean enough now, and sure it's little good brightening
you up, when you'll be as bad to-morrow. Like his father's son, devil a lie
in it! Nothing would serve him but his best blue jacket to fight in, as if
the French was particular what they killed us in. Pleasant trade, upon my
conscience! Well, never mind. That's beautiful _sperets_, anyhow. Your
health, Mickey Free; it's yourself that stands to me.

"It's little for glory I care;
Sure ambition is only a fable;
I'd as soon be myself as Lord Mayor,
With lashings of drink on the table.
I like to lie down in the sun
And _drame_, when my _faytures_ is scorchin'
That when I'm too _