It was monstrous diffikil to git the men to fall in; thar hain’t been none of them deformed drunkerds down here yit, and the way the fellers does love peach and hunny is ’mazin’. Bimeby Bill Skinner tuck a stick and made a long strate streak in the sand, and then hollered out, “Oh, yes! oh, yes! all you as belongs to Coon-holler beat is to git in a strate line on this trail!” Tom Cullers made a streak for his beat, and the fellers begun to string themselves along in a strate line, and in about a quarter of a ower they wer all settled like bees on a bean-pole, pretty considerable strate. Arter a while they sent word to me that they was all reddy, and I had my horse fetched up to tother side of the tavern; but when I cum to him, the bominable fool didn’t know me sumhow, and begun kickin’ and prancin’, and cavortin’ about like mad. I made the niggers hold him till I got on, then I sent word round to the drummer to drum like blazes as soon as he seed me turn the corner, and to the men to be reddy to salute. My sword kep rattlin’ agin the side of my hors, and the fool was skeered so he didn’t know which eend he stood on; and kep dancin’ about and squattin’ and rarin’ so I couldn’t hardly hold on to him. The nigger went and told the men what I sed; and when I thought they was all reddy, round I went in a canter, with my sash and regimentals flyin’ and my red fether wavin’ as graceful as a corn tossel in a whirlwind; but jest as I got to the corner ther was a fuss like heaven and yearth was cumin’ together. Rattlebang, wher-r-r-r-r went the drum, and the nigger blowed the fife rite out strate, till his eyes was sot in his hed—harra! hey-y-y! hurra! went all the niggers and everybody else—my horse wheelin’ and pitchin’ worse than ever, rite up to the muster—and, fore I could draw my breth, bang! bang! bang! de bang! bang! bang! went every gun in the crowd, and all I knowed was, I was whirlin’, and pitchin’, and swingin’ about in the smoke and fire till I cum full length rite smack on the ground, “in all the pride, pomp, and circumstances of glorious war,” as Mr. Shakspeare ses. Lucky enough I didn’t git hurt; but my cote was split clear up to the coller, my yaller britches busted all to flinders, and my shaperdebraw and fether all nocked into a perfect mush. Thunder and lightnin’! thinks I, what must be a man’a feelin’s in a rale battle, whar they’re shootin’ in good yearnest! Cum to find out, it was all a mistake; the men didn’t know nothing bout military ticktacks, and thought I ment a regular forth of July salute.