"That poor little petticoat wouldn't make an arm bandage for Susan Jemima.

Now--up with your hoofie and let's play I'm a surgeon and you're a brave soldier who has fought in every battle since we first made the Yanks skedaddle at Bull Run." With the painful foot securely bandaged the little girl gave herself up to thought, emerging from her study at last to ask what was an all-important question.
"Daddy--" "Yes ?" "Do you reckon, by the time the war is over, we could call Susan Jemima a vet'ran ?" "I should say we could," the father agreed heartily, without the symptom of a smile.

"Hasn't she grown bald in the service?
And hasn't she almost lost an arm--or is it a leg I see dangling so terribly?
I'll tell you what we'll do! We'll give her an honorable discharge--and decorate her.
How's that ?" "Oh, fine!" she cried, clapping her hands with delight at the fantasy.
"And we'll get that Yankee man to write her a pass just like mine.

Do you hear that, Cap'n Susan," she crooned to the doll, unconscious of the convulsion of silent amusement beside her.

"When we get to Richmon'-- if we ever _do_ get there--I'm going to make you a uniform!" Then she turned to her father with a little sigh, for the miles seemed very long.
"How far _is_ it to Richmon', Daddy-man ?" she said.
"Just about twelve miles," her father answered.