“Mr. President,” said a friend to him, “there isn’t much left of Hood’s army, is there?”

“Well, no, Medill: I think Hood’s army is about in the fix of Bill Sykes dog, down in Sangamon county. Did you ever hear it?”

Of course, the answer was, “Never.”

“Well, Bill Sykes had a long, yaller dog, that was forever getting into the neighbors’ meat-houses and chicken-coops. They had tried to kill it a hundred times, but the dog was always too smart for them. Finally, one of them got a bladder of a coon, and filled it up with powder, tying the neck around a piece of punk. When he saw the dog coming he fired this punk, split open a hot biscuit and put the bladder in, then buttered all nicely and threw it out. The dog swallowed it at a gulp. Pretty soon there was an explosion. The head of the dog lit on the porch, the forelegs caught astraddle the fence, the bind-legs fell in the ditch, and the rest of the dog lay around loose. Pretty soon Bill Sykes came along, and the neighbor said: ‘Bill, I guess there aint much of that dog of your’s left.’ ‘Well, no,’ said Bill; ‘I see plenty of pieces, but I guess that dog, as a dog, aint of much more account.’ Just so, Medill, there may be fragments of Hood’s army around, but I guess that dog, as a dog, aint of much more account.”