This is Ellyat’s tune, this is no tune but his. Nine months have passed since McDowell reddened Bull Run, Nine strong-hoofed months, but they have meant little to Ellyat. What means the noise of the wind to the dust in the wind? But the wind calls strange things out, calls strange men out, A dozen pictures flash in front of the eyes And are gone in a flash⁠— rough-bearded Tecumseh Sherman, Who had tried most things, but being cursed with a taste For honesty, had found small luck in his stars; Ex-soldier, banker, lawyer, each in its turn, Ex-head of a Southern military-school, Untidy ex-president of a little horse-railroad; Talkative, nervous, salty, Scotch-Irish fighter, High-strung, quick-tempered, essentially modern-minded, Stamping the length of the dusty corridors Of a Western hotel with a dead cigar in his teeth, Talking the war to himself, till the word goes round The new general is crazy⁠—