'T was dig, dig, dig, till the flesh begins to creep;At the first six embrasures on the right of this long barrier were our guns. Behind them were our corral and our company quarters, and near at hand, its camp systematically arranged, was our supporting regiment. We were now, those of us who were well and hardy, (which in spite of all was a majority of us,) jogging along to the routine tune of camp life. But this, in the rests between the whole notes, permits of many episodes in the course of a week. We watered our horses regularly in Herring Run, twice a day, and we, nearly as regularly at a different hour, dove and swam in its waters. An incident, one of several that we shall relate in the course of our history, that illustrates the versatility of our boys, occurred during one of our daily baths in Herring Run Creek. One evening a squad of Vermont boys, of our corps, and as many of our own company, had just waded into the creek, when comrade Flukins exclaimed, ‘I'll wager I can stay under water longer than any man here!’ Suiting his action to his word, he dove and disappeared; the Vermonters, few of whom swam, waded and paddled around, our boys swam about, ducked under, and gambolled in the water; at last, said one of our Vermonters, ‘He's drowned; no one could stay under so long.’ His own comrades were a little mystified, but their confidence in Flukins' aquatic genius lessened the alarm they might otherwise have experienced. But a minute more and another elapsed, and his comrades asked: ‘Where is Flukins? Must we run up to camp, give the alarm, drag the river?’ ‘Wait awhile, my boys!’ said a voice behind us and sure enough, up the bank, peering from the thick underbrush, was the head of Mr. Flukins, looking like a merman's, the water dripping from his beard, and a brilliant globule suspended from his nose. He had swam back some rods under water, and quietly climbed up the bank.
'T was dig, dig, dig, till the stars begin to peep.
Oh! general gallant and young, oh! general wise and brave,
'T is not the foe you are wearing out,
You are digging a nation's grave!
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[64]
intrenched, awaiting the attack of a foe who never came; he had a better plan.
But the digging did not cease.
Boston. Press of Deland and Barta, 1886.
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