Page:Southern Historical Society Papers volume 01.djvu/86

78 anything to him if you value his friendship! Don't attempt to put on or take off from the top of that skillet one single coal, and don't be in a hurry for the biscuit. You need not say you "like yours half done," &c. Simply wait. When he thinks they are ready, and not before, you get them. He may raise the lid cautiously now and then and look in, but don't you look in. Don't say you think they are done; because it's useless.

Ah! his face relaxes—he raises the lid, turns it upside down to throw off the coals, and says: All right boys! And now with the air of a wealthy philanthropist he distributes the solid and weighty product of his skill to, as it were, the humble dependents around him.

The "General" of the mess having satisfied the cravings of the inner-man, now proceeds to enlighten the ordinary members of it as to when, how and why, and where the campaign will open, and what will be the result.

He arranges for every possible and impossible contingency, and brings the war to a favorable and early termination. The greatest mistake General Lee ever made, was that he failed to consult this man. Who can tell what "might have been" if he had.

Now, to the consternation of all hands, our old friend, "the Bore," familiarly known as "the old Auger," opens his mouth to tell us of a little incident illustrative of his personal prowess, and by way of preface, commences at Eden and goes laboriously through the Patriarchal age, on through the Mosaic dispensation to the Christian era, takes in Grecian and Roman history, by the way, then Spain and Germany and England and colonial times, and the early history of our grand Republic; the causes of and necessity for our war, and a complete history up to date. And then slowly unfolds the little matter. We always loved to hear this man, and prided ourselves on being the only mess in the army having such treasure all our own.

The "Auger" having been detailed for guard-duty walks off, and his voice grows fainter and fainter in the distance, and we call forth our Poet. One eye is bandaged with a dirty cotton rag. He is bareheaded and his hair resembles a dismantled straw-stack. His elbows and knees are out, and his pants, from the knee down, have a brown-toasted tinge imparted by the genial heat of many a fire. His toes protrude themselves prominently from his shoes. You would say, "What a dirty, ignorant fellow." But listen to his rich, well-modulated voice. How perfect his memory. What graceful