“That is what I am for!” perorated the wet-nurse. “I am for the enlisted man. The country looks to our beloved Purresident, but you look to me. Go forth, young men, for I am behind every one of you. No so-called military regulations shall insult your American manhood or grind you down while I stand sentinel at my post. If you are troubled, come to me and you shall have your rights. Go forth then, you who outshine their vaunted Cæsars, their licentious Alexanders, their pagan Plutos and Aspasias! Go forth to be the bulwarks and imperishable heroes of our gullorious country!” The watermelons cheered, the wet-nurse stepped down to let them shake his hand, and Captain Stone went home with his bride, in a speechless rage. He was able to speak presently. “Still, Joshua,” she mildly insisted, “young soldiers have so many sad temptations, I am glad he has their welfare at heart.” “Nonsense, Gwendolen,” said the captain. “You’ll soon know the army, and you’ll see then that such talk as his merely turns contented men into discontented babies.” “Nobody could ever be discontented with you, Joshua, I am sure,” the bride, with sweet emotion, murmured. She was nineteen, the captain was forty-five, and upon gazing at the rosy cheeks of his Gwendolen he would frequently assert that a man was always as young as he felt. The Secretary, after inspecting the military post, dined with the mayor of the neighboring town. At this meal, when a cold bottle had been finished, the mayor went so far as to inquire: “Say, who was Aspasia?” But the Secretary answered: “What a wonderful land is ours and what a beautiful city is yours.” II. THE ENERGY IS TRANSMITTED The expectations of Sergeant Jones were entirely unfulfilled. Much experience in taking charge of recruits upon long railway journeys had taught him that their earnest faces were not always more stirring than the stars upon Old Glory; he knew that you do not invariably find that sort of face for thirteen dollars a month. He had generally been obliged to watch their purchases at way stations, he had not seldom been forced to remove bottles of strong spirits from their possession, and he had almost always found it necessary to teach some of them a lesson in obedience. Judge therefore of the sergeant’s amazement when, after the first half day of journey, a long overgrown ruddy boy approached him and asked in unsoiled Southern accents: “Please, sah, can we sing?” “Sing?” said Jones. “Sing what?” “‘Pull foah the shoah, sailah.’ We have learned to do it in parts back in our home.” “Yes,” said Jones, “I guess you can sing that--in parts or as a whole.” “We sing it as a whole in parts, sah,” explained the recruit with simplicity. “Your name Anniston?” Jones inquired, abruptly suspicious. “Bateau, sah. Leonidas Bateau. My cousin, Xerxes Anniston, sits over yonder by the watahcoolah.” “Oh,” said Jones. “Yes, sah. Xerx he sings bass in our choir back in our home. Sistah Smith--” “Who?” said the sergeant.