Читать книгу A Minor War History Compiled from a Soldier Boy's Letters to "the Girl I Left Behind Me": 1861-1864 - Martin A. Haynes - Страница 28

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Camp Union,

Bladensburg, Md., Sunday, Oct. 6, 1861.

THE Fourth Regiment are encamped about two miles below here. I went down to see them one day last week and had a good time. Saw Kin. Foss, Sam. Porter, “Tulip” Bunten and many others. As I went strolling through the camp, I noted one street down ahead where there appeared to be half a dozens fights going on, in various stages of development. I said to myself, I’ll bet a dollar that’s Charlie Hurd’s company. I won the bet.

The Third Regiment has gone to Annapolis. This afternoon we are to be reviewed by Gen. McClellan. He has reviewed us once before, and it may be that he intends putting us ahead somewhere, and that we shall leave Bladensburg before long.

So you want me to learn a lot of songs, do you? Well, I have anticipated your wishes and already commenced. There is one pathetic local ballad that I have been practicing on and can do pretty well for a green hand. Here is the first verse, which will give you some idea of its high artistic merits:

“A grasshopper sat on a sweet pertater vine,

On a sweet pertater vine, on a sweet pertater vine,

When a turkey gob-u-ler acoming up behind

Just yanked him off of that sweet pertater vine.”

Then there is another that is very popular with the boys. It is easy to learn, notwithstanding there are 147 verses to it. I will give you the first verse, and when you’ve got that you’ve got the whole thing, for they’re all alike. One, two, sing:

“John Brown he knew that his father was well,

And his father he knew that John Brown he was well,

For when John Brown knew that his father was well,

His father he knew that John Brown he was well.”

Our entire company was out yesterday cutting down woods that interfered with the range of the guns on the forts we have been building. My mother, having in recollection her experiences with the family wood box when I was a boy, would probably have advised against taking me out. But I am inclined to think that, as a wood chopper I achieved some reputation this time, as after I had gnawed down a tree of considerable size some of the boys called the others to come and admire “Mart’s stump.”

Well, I have strung out a long letter, and some of it you can credit to the delightful surroundings and conditions under which I am working. Here is the picture: A big tent—the Quartermaster’s—overlooking from its back a railroad cut twenty-five or thirty feet deep; an enormous oak tree deeply shading a large space, with a delicious breeze rustling its branches; several of the boys sitting around reading the newspapers, chatting, and looking down upon the numerous trains that pass below; and your own correspondent, with a big pile of army overcoats for a backrest.