It was in passing General Butler's
headquarters near the Rowanty. In the woods gleamed his white tents;
before them stretched the level sandy road; a crowd of staff officers
and others, with the general in their midst, were admiring two glossy
ponies, led up by two small urchins, evidently about to run a race on
them.
Butler--that brave soldier, whom all admired as much as I did--was
limping about, in consequence of a wound received at Fleetwood. In the
excitement of the approaching race he had forgotten his hurt. And soon
the urchins were tossed up on the backs of their little glossy
steeds--minus all but bridle. Then they took their positions about
three hundred yards off; remained an instant abreast and motionless;
then a clapping of hands was heard--it was the signal to start--and the
ponies came on like lightning.
The sight was comic beyond expression. The boys clung with their knees,
bending over the floating manes; the little animals darted by; they
disappeared in the woods "amid thunders of applause;" and it was
announced that the roan pony had won.
"Trifles," you say, perhaps, reader; "why don't our friend, the
colonel, go on with his narrative?"
True,--the reproach is just. But these trifles cling so to the memory!
I like to recall them--to review the old scenes--to paint the "trifles"
even, which caught my attention during the great civil war.
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