s face,
the jerkings of his head, and the twirlings of his thumbs, that if you
were looking at him you must know what he meant.

"Ay, ay!" piped the little boys in chorus.

"Then I'll muster you in," said Horace, grandly. "Has everybody brought
their guns?--I mean _sticks_, you know!"

"Ay, ay!"

"I want to be corporal," said Peter Grant.

"I'll be major," cried Willy Snow.

"There, you've spoke," shouted the captain. "I wish there was a tub or
bar'l to stand you on when you talk."

After some time an empty flour barrel was brought, and placed upright
under a tree, to serve as a dunce-block.

"Now we'll begin 'new," said the captain. "Those that want to be
mustered, rise up their hands; but don't you snap your fingers."

The caution came too late for some of the boys; but Horace forgave the
seeming disrespect, knowing that no harm was intended.

"Now, boys, what are you fighting about?--Say, For our country!"

"For our country," shouted the soldiers, some in chorus, and some in
solo.

"And our flag," added Horace, as an after-thought.

"And our flag," repeated the boys, looking at the little banner of stars
and stripes, which was fastened to the stump of a tree, and faintly
fluttered in the breeze.

"Long may it wave!" cried Horace, growing enthusiastic, and pointing
backward to the flag with a sweep of his thumb.

"There ain't a 'Secesh' in this company; there ain't a man but wants our
battle to beat! If there is, we'll muster him out double-quick."

A few caps were flourished in the air, and every mouth was set firmly
together, as if it would shout scorn of secession if it dared speak. It
was a loyal company; there was no doubt of that. Indeed, the captain was
so bitter against the South, that he had asked his aunt Madge if it was
right to let _southernwood_ grow in the garden.

"Now," said Horace, "Forward! March! 'Ploy column!--No, form a line
first. Ten_tion_!"

A curved, uncertain line, not unlike the letter S, gradually
straightened itself, and the boys looked down to their feet as if they
expected to see a chalk-mark on the grass.

"Now, when I say, 'Right!' you must look at the buttons on my jacket--or
on yours, I've forgot which; on yours, I reckon. Right! Right at 'em!
Right at the buttons!"

Obedient to orders, every boy's head drooped in a moment.

"Stop!" said Horace, knitting his brows; "that's enough!" For there
seemed to be something wrong, he could not tell what.

"Now you