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Updated: May 28, 2025
Let us see, Mc.; how long's it been since we were sitting on the sand there in Florence, boiling our pint of meal in that old can?" "It seems many years, Lale," I said; "but for heaven's sake let us try to forget it as soon as possible. We will always remember too much of it." And we did try hard to make the miserable recollections fade out of our minds.
Concluding that this was all the comfort that he could have, and that I might as well gratify him, I cut up some of the weed, filled his pipe and lighted it. He smoked calmly and almost happily all the afternoon, hardly speaking a word to me. As it grew dark he asked me to bring him a drink. I did so, and as I raised him up he said: "Mc, this thing's ended.
At first I did not show him the tobacco, as I was strongly opposed to his using it, thinking that it was making him much worse. But he looked at the tempting peaches and figs with lack-luster eyes; he was too far gone to care for them. He pushed them back to me, saying faintly: "No, you take 'em, Mc; I don't want 'em; I can't eat 'em!" I then produced the tobacco, and his face lighted up.
He is full of rage, and muttering terrible threats. He was out very early this morning and emptied his six-shooter, and came in and reloaded it and put it in first-rate order. I said, 'Mc, what's up now? He replied, 'I will kill that d d old doctor to-day or to-night; and he will do it. I have known him make threats before, and have never known him fail to execute them.
Careless people made the "Mc" "Mac," and others left the extra "l" off "McNeill." To one of the latter offenders he wrote: "McNeill, by the way, should have two l's. I use them both, and in the midst of things cannot well do without them!" When Tom Taylor, the critic, died, a friend asked Whistler why he looked so glum. "Me?" said Whistler. "Who else has such cause to mourn? Tommy's dead.
When we were at Blackshear we still had the map, and intended to make another effort, "as soon as the sign got right." One day while we were waiting for this, Walter Hartsough, a Sergeant of Company g, of our battalion, came to me and said: "Mc., I wish you'd lend me your map a little while. I want to make a copy."
"He was a most excellent preacher," says Fuller, "who, like a good husband, never broached what he had new-brewed, but preached what he had studied some competent time before: insomuch that he was wont to say that he would cross the common proverb, which called 'Saturday the working day, and Monday the holiday, of preachers." Dryden's Mc Flecnoe.
The name was originally McCoy; but the "Mc." was dropped by Edward Coy's grandfather and was not again resumed by his descendants. By his wife, whose maiden name was Amy Titus, Mr. Coy had a family of six sons and five daughters. His third daughter was the first female child born of English or American parents on the River St. John.
"Never mind; the new comers will know where he has moved to, my dear, so don't be discouraged; and if you don't succeed, come to me, and we will see what to do next," said my General. I blessed her in a fervent manner and a cool hall, fluttered round the corner, and bore down upon Milk Street, bent on discovering Mc K. if such a being was to be found.
Let us see, Mc.; how long's it been since we were sitting on the sand there in Florence, boiling our pint of meal in that old can?" "It seems many years, Lale," I said; "but for heaven's sake let us try to forget it as soon as possible. We will always remember too much of it." And we did try hard to make the miserable recollections fade out of our minds.
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