The road and the bushes all about Were cluttered with relics of Yankee rout, Haversacks spilling their shirts and socks, A burst canteen and a cartridge-box. Rifles and cups trampled underfoot, A woman’s locket, a slashed black boot Stained and oozing along the slash And a ripe pear crushed to a yellow mash. Who had carried the locket and munched the pear, And why was a dead cat lying there, Stark and grinning, a furry sack, With a red flannel tongue and a broken back? You didn’t fight wars with a tabby-cat.⁠ ⁠… He found he was telling the Yankees that, They couldn’t hear him of course, but still⁠ ⁠… He shut his eyes for a minute until He felt less dizzy. There, that was better, And the evening wind was chilly and keen⁠— —He’d have to write Mother some sort of letter⁠— —He’d promised Amanda a Yank canteen, But he didn’t feel like getting it here, Where that dead cat snickered from ear to ear⁠—