He wondered idly about the flags on the garters. Did they change them to Rebel flags when the Rebels came? Some poor whore down the river had had herself Tattoed with a Secesh flag. She was patriotic. She cried so hard when the Union troops were landed That the madam had to hide her down in the cellar. He must be bad to be thinking of things like that On Sunday morning. He’d better go to church If they had any kind of church, and make up for it⁠— O frosty churchbells jangling across the thin Crust of packed frost, under Connecticut sky, Put snow on my tongue, and the grey, cool flower of rain⁠— He had to get up. He couldn’t lie here and listen To Bailey and the rest of them, snoring away. His throat was dry. He needed a drink of water But not from a muddy river⁠—put rain on my tongue! Souse me with chilly, sweet flaws of Puritan rain⁠— He started to put on his boots, looking over at Bailey. Bailey was bearded, Bailey was thirty-two, Bailey had been a teamster and was a corporal. The waking Bailey looked like a stupid horse, The sleeping Bailey looked like a dirty sack,