Hood thought he would strike while the iron was hot, and while it could
be hammered into shape, and make the Yankees believe that it was the
powerful arm of old Joe that was wielding the sledge.
But he was like the fellow who took a piece of iron to the shop,
intending to make him an ax. After working for some time and failing,
he concluded he would make him a wedge, and, failing in this, said,
"I'll make a skeow." So he heats the iron red-hot and drops it into the
slack-tub, and it went s-k-e-o-w, bubble, bubble, s-k-e-o-w, bust.
KILLING A YANKEE SCOUT
On the night of the 20th, the Yankees were on Peachtree creek, advancing
toward Atlanta. I was a videt that night, on the outpost of the army.
I could plainly hear the moving of their army, even the talking and
laughing of the Federal soldiers. I was standing in an old sedge field.
About midnight everything quieted down. I was alone in the darkness,
left to watch while the army slept. The pale moon was on the wane,
a little yellow arc, emitting but a dim light, and the clouds were lazily
passing over it, while the stars seemed trying to wink and sparkle and
make night beautiful. I thought of God, of heaven, of home, and I
thought of Jennie--her whom I had ever loved, and who had given me her
troth in all of her maiden purity, to be my darling bride so soon as the
war was over.
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