"Now the story of this drawn-fight got abroad, you see," says the Honest Abe, working the blade of his jack-knife with his thumb--"it got abroad; and one day a neighbor went to the old 'un, and says he: 'There's one thing about that big fight of yours, Uncle Billy, I can't understand. What made you put off the end of the show till next spring?' "'Have you seen the cantankerous spot where we fit?' says the old 'un, moving his shoulders uneasily. "'Truelie,' says the neighbor. "'Well,' says the old 'un, craftily, 'I'm just waiting _till that thar spot has a trifle of grass on it_.'" At the conclusion of this natural little narrative, my boy, the dignified conventional chap hurried from the White House scratching his head: and I really believe, my boy--I really believe, that his sensitive soul detected an analogy not gushingly flattering to national strategy and the President of the United States for 1865. Soon after hearing of this, I met him at Willard's, and says I: "Well, my sagacious Mirabeau, what is your final opinion of our Honest Abe?" He merely paused long enough to swear at a button which happened to burst from the neck-band of his shirt just then, and says he: "The Honest Abe is a well-meaning Executive, enough. He's a well-meaning Executive," says the dignified chap, with an air of slightly-irritated good-nature; "but I wish he'd do something to save his country, instead of telling small tales all the time." Our President is an honest man, my boy, and the glass in his spectacles isn't exactly made of the paper they print telegrams upon. Learning that the Mackerel Brigade was still awaiting abject peace propositions from the exhausted Confederacy, on the borders of Accomac, I scaled the outer walls of my Gothic steed, Pegasus, on Wednesday, and sped thither on the metaphorical wings of retarded lightning. A wisp of hay was clinging to the wiry mane of the architectural animal, my boy, and this I used to delude the spirited steed from making those sudden stops in which he invariably indulges whenever a passing acquaintance hails us with the familiar salutation of "Hey!--where are you bound?" The charger has evidently a confused idea of the word "Hey," my boy. Upon gaining the outskirts of Accomac, I met Company 3, Regiment 5, Mackerel Brigade, just coming out to make a bayonet-charge upon one of the Confederacy's earthworks not far away. I might have let the warriors pass by unheeded, my boy, as I was deeply ruminating upon strategy; but as they came nearer, I noticed among them a file of red noses dragging along a Mackerel, who was tearing and groaning like a madman. In fact, the chap became so violent just then, that Captain Villiam Brown precipitately dropped his canteen and halted the company. I looked at the devoted and nearly-sober beings clustered about the struggling chap, and says I: "Has mutiny reared his horrid front, my veterans? What ails our gymnastic friend?"