Grasping his bridle, however, firmly, and knowing that delay in endeavoring to soothe his horse might ruin his speech, the youngster, after giving birth to a loud preliminary h-e-m, commenced. “Fellow-soldiers, (whoe, Jim,) I appear before ye, (whoe, I say,) on this occasion to address you briefly upon the duties of the citizen soldiery of our country. The duty of defending our homes and firesides, (whoe, whoe, you brute you,) our homes and firesides, (whoe, you rascal,) homes and, (well, I never saw such a devilish creature in my life, whoe, I say,) homes and firesides is a paramount duty. Who—would—evade—it! Who—wou-wou-wou-wou-would, (whoe, whoe, who-o-o-e—you most infernal of all devils,) who would sh-sh-sh-shun or fly”—here the question bolted out at broken intervals, occasioned by the thumping in his saddle from the prancing of his excited horse, was to the great horror of the square, answered practically by the questioner himself. If no body else would fly he, or rather his steed, showed that he would. Giving a tremendous leap, Spitfire (the horse’s name, and a capital one, too,) broke through an opening in the square and “rattle-te-clatter,” (as Loafing Joe, in describing the scene afterward to a knot of the village young men in Wiggins’s bar-room said,) “the way he streaked it over the green, was nothen to nobody’s folks. He went like a shot from a shovel past Old Cheese’s as if he was a goen to pitch right into John P.’s donyard. But old Spitfire catty-cornered round so quick that “little Blackberry” (the rider’s nickname in the village, from his dark complexion,) swung sideways like old Lummocks when he’s slewed, and then, Lordjersees Massies, if he didn’t slap it down the turnpike in a hurry, with little Blackberry a hold of the mane, and a grinning like a wild-cat, you may say to my face that I’m a liar, that’s all. Howsever, Spitfire couldn’t git past Wiggins’s, no how you can fix it, for he’s eat too many oats there, so he gives another sheer so that little Blackberry’s right leg stuck out like a pump-handle, and bolt he went under the shed, and brought up all standen. Little Blackberry pitched into the manger, and the hoss began to eat hay as if nothen had been the matter, and that, boys, is the eend on’t. Who’s a goen to treat!”