CHAPTER XV.
Toward the end of June, as Claymore's new provisional brigade of Sykes's division, Fitz John Porter's superb corps d'armee, neared the designated rendezvous, some particularly dirty veteran regiments, bivouacked along the fields, crowded to the roadside, fairly writhing in their scorn and derision.
"Fresh fish! Oh--h! Fresh fi--sh!" they shouted.

"My God, boys, just see them pretty red pants! Mother! Come and look.

Oh, papa, what are they?
Sa--ay, would you gentlemen kindly tell us poor old sodgers what kind ov a hell ov a, dressmaker cut out them pantalettes?
I wish I could go out to play with these nice, perlite little boys?
Oh, children! why _didn't_ you bring your nursemaids with you ?" The 3rd Zouaves marched past the jeering veterans, grinding their teeth, but making no effort at retort.

They knew well enough by this time that any attempt to retort would be worse than useless.
As the head of the column of the 8th Lancers appeared from the West at the forks of the other road, the dingy veterans fairly danced in malicious delight: "Excuse us," they simpered, kissing their dirty finger-tips to the horsemen, "_ex_-cuse us, please, but do tell us how you left dear old Fift' Avenoo.

Them rocking hosses need a leetle new paint where they sit down, me lords.