The Storm Centre by Mary Noailles Murfree — Read

In these days the picket lines were seldom stationary; one or the other faction continually drew in close these outlying guards, as if by presentiment, -- an unexplained monition of caution, or perhaps because of some vague rumor of danger. Now and again, by a sudden belligerent impulse, they were impetuously attacked and driven in; but apparently in pursuance of no definite plan of aggression emanating from the main body. A few days of surly silence and stillness would ensue, and then the opposing force would return the warlike compliment with interest, holding the enemy's ground and kindling bivouac fires from the embers they had left. It seemed a sort of game of tag -- a grim game; for the loss of life in these futile manoeuvres amounted to far more in the long run than the few casualties in each skirmish might indicate. Sometimes these feints were entirely relinquished, and intervals of absolute inaction continued so long that it might seem a matter of doubt why the two lines were there at all, with so vague a similitude of war. Occasionally they lay so near that the individual soldiers, forgetful of sectional enmity, gave rein to mere human interest in the opportunities afforded by a common tongue and an apprehended and familiar range of feeling. A lot of tobacco, thrown into a group about a bivouac fire by an unseen hand one night, brought the next night a package of "hard tack" from over the way. Now and again long-range conversations were held, full of kindly curiosity, or humorously abusive, the questionable wit of which mightily rejoiced the heart of the lonely sentinel, and upon his relief all the jokes were duly rehearsed when once more in camp, he himself, of course, represented as coming off winner in the wordy war, being able to appropriate all the good things said by the enemy.

The loud, cheerful, "Say, air you the galoot ez wuz swapping lies with Ben Smith day 'fore yestiddy? " and the response, "Smith, _Smith_, you say. I dis-remember the name. I guess I never heard it afore! " all were much more commendable from a merely humanitarian point of view than the singing of the minie ball or the hissing shriek of a shell that had been wont to intrude on the bland quietude of the sweet spring air.