“‘Comin’, as we-all does, from one thousand miles away, thar ain’t one of us who saveys, practical, as much about the sand-blown desert regions we invades as we does of what goes on in the moon.  That Gen’ral Canby, who later gets downed by the Modocs, is on the Rio Grande at Fort Craig.  While we’re pirootin’ about in a blind sort o’ fashion we ropes up one of Canby’s couriers who’s p’intin’ no’th for Fort Union with despatches.  This Gen’ral Canby makes the followin’ facetious alloosion:  After mentionin’ our oninvited presence in the territory, he says: 

“’"But let ’em alone.  We’ll dig the potatoes when they’re ripe.”

“‘Gents, we was the toobers!’ An’ yere the Major pauses for a drink.  ‘We was the potatoes which Canby’s exultin’ over!  We don’t onderstand it at the time, but it gets cl’arer as the days drifts by.

“’I’m never in a more desolate stretch of what would be timber only thar ain’t no trees.  Thar’s nothin’ for the mules an’ hosses; half the time thar ain’t even water.  An’ then it’s alkali.  An’ our days teems an’ staggers with disgustin’ experiences.  Once we’re shy water two days.  It’s the third day about fourth drink time in the evenin’.  The sun has two hours yet to go.  My battery is toilin’ along, sand to the hubs of gun-carriages an’ caissons, when I sees the mules p’int their y’ears for’ard with looks of happy surprise.  Then the intelligent anamiles begins a song of praise; an’ next while we-all is marvellin’ thereat an’ before ever a gent can stretch hand to bridle to stop ’em, the mules begins to fly.  They yanks my field pieces over the desert as busy an’ full of patriotic ardour as a drunkard on ’lection day.  The whole battery runs away.  Gents, the mules smells water.  It’s two miles away,—­a big pond she is,—­an’ that locoed battery never stops, but rushes plumb in over its y’ears; an’ I lose sixteen mules an’ two guns before ever I’m safe ag’in on terry firmy.

“‘It’s shore remarkable,’ exclaims the Major, settin’ down his glass, ‘how time softens the view an’ changes bitter to sweet that a-way.  As I brings before me in review said details thar’s nothin’ more harassin’ from soda to hock than that campaign on the Rio Grande.  Thar’s not one ray of sunshine to paint a streak of gold in the picture from frame to frame; all is dark an’ gloom an’ death.  An’ yet, lookin’ back’ard through the years, the mem’ry of it is pleasant an’ refreshing a heap more so than enterprises of greater ease with success instead of failure for the finish.

“‘Thar’s one partic’lar incident of this explorin’ expeditions into Noo Mexico which never recurs to my mind without leavin’ my eyes some dim.  I don’t claim to be no expert on pathos an’ I’m far from regyardin’ myse’f as a sharp on tears, but thar’s folks who sort o’ makes sadness a speshulty, women folks lots of ’em, who allows that what I’m about to recount possesses pecooliar elements of sorrow.