Harper's Round Table, July 9, 1895

Excerpt

"Attention! Right dress! Front! Order arms! Carry arms! Present arms! Right shoulder arms! Carry arms! Stand straighter, Billy. Can't you fellows keep in line? Right face! Left face! About face! Oh, all right, I won't go on with the drill if you don't try harder than that."

"Let us off this afternoon, Tommy? There's a good fellow," begged Billy Atkins, a fat little chap of twelve, who, between the heat and his exertions to keep his round body erect, was nearly used up.

"You won't ever learn to drill decently, then," answered the discouraged Sergeant.

"Oh, yes, we will, in double-quick time; but it is so hot, and we all want to be in good shape for to-morrow."

"What do you say, fellows?" asked Tommy, turning to the other panting recruits.

"Let's stop," they all responded, briskly, "and try to fix up some scheme for the Fourth."

"Very well," answered the Sergeant, a little reluctantly. "I did want to try the bayonet exercise; but I suppose we can do that some other time." Then drawing himself up in true martial style: "Port arms! Dismissed!"

The boys took instant advantage of the command, and hastily stacking their arms, they squatted on the grass to try and cool off by means of mumble-the-peg and a discussion of Fourth-of-July plans.

Tom Porter, aged twelve, had spent a year at a military academy, and had come home for his summer holidays burning with military ardor, and primed with tactics from the latest manual of arms.

He soon fired the ambition of the other boys, and in a week had organized a company—or "squad," as he decided it really was—composed of ten raw recruits and a band of two, mustered under the banner of the Raleigh Reds.

They drilled faithfully day after day under the command of their enthusiastic Sergeant, and the discordant sounds from the fife and drum became a nuisance to the neighborhood.

But now that the novelty of the drill was wearing off, the boys began to pine for active service, and wild plans of campaigns, with long marches, bloody battles, and glorious victories, floated through Tommy's brain, as he nightly revolved the future of the Raleigh Reds.

"Well, how are we going to celebrate the Fourth?" asked Lilly Atkins, throwing down the knife in disgust, after failing ignominiously in the delicate operation known as "eating oysters." "It's no fun just marching at the tail end of a parade."

"We might make another raid on old Jones's cattle," suggested Herbert Day; "we know a lot more tactics and manœuvres now."

"Not much, unless Tommy teaches us some slick barbed-wire-fence drill," said Dick. "I'm on my last pair of trousers."

"That was a pretty big fizzle," Tommy said, shaking his head. "And how they did jolly me at home! Did you ever hear the poem my sister wrote about it?"

"No; what was it?"

"Well, it was sort of like 'Half a League,' only different, about us, instead of the 'Six Hundred.' It's pretty good," modestly.

"Can't you say it?" asked Herbert.

"Yes, go ahead, Tommy," chimed in the others.

Tommy blushed. It seemed conceited to recite his sister's verses, and yet he was genuinely proud of them.

"It's a grind on us, you know," he said, warningly.

"Oh, that's all right; we're used to it; fire away."

Thus pressed, Tommy began:

"'Half a mile, half a mile,
Dust-choked and solemn,
Straight for old Jones's field
Marched the brave column....