FOOTNOTE:

FOOTNOTE:[A]The boys made merry over every situation and joked and jollied one another under all circumstances. A lady visiting the camp at Fairmount Park happened, in passing, to see a nice-looking boy in the guard house, and with surprise stopped and asked, "Why, what have they putyouin here for?" The poor boy blushed and began to stammer; a comrade standing by took in the situation and promptly replied, "For playing baseball on Sunday, madame!"

[A]The boys made merry over every situation and joked and jollied one another under all circumstances. A lady visiting the camp at Fairmount Park happened, in passing, to see a nice-looking boy in the guard house, and with surprise stopped and asked, "Why, what have they putyouin here for?" The poor boy blushed and began to stammer; a comrade standing by took in the situation and promptly replied, "For playing baseball on Sunday, madame!"

Huckleberries are ripe in the wilderness around Camp Alger, and many boys from Missouri are getting their first taste of the berry immortalized in the name of Tom Sawyer's adventurous friend. Dewberries also find many a nook in the woods and the fallow fields, where of mornings they gleam fresh and black on their low running vines. But most abundant of all are the blackberries. The vines were in blossom when we were at Jefferson Barracks, and we thought we should like to be there—if not at Porto Rico or Manila—when the berries should be ripe; but we find them more abundant around our present camp and of a fine, large growth. Joaquin Miller advised the Virginians to "plow up their dogs and plant vineyards." Were I a Virginian I should present to view such a field as Solomon said belonged to the sluggard, "Lo, it was all grown over with thorns."

There can hardly be a better berry-growing region anywhere than among these old, yellow hills, in sight of the nation's capital. All kinds of berries of a fine quality grow well here by nature, which proves that soil and season are congenial. Under cultivation, as here and there you may see them, the yield is large and the quality excellent. The boys on their visits to the "ole swimmin' hole" usually get not only plenty of good fresh country milk, but scatter through the woods and get a taste of some kind of berries, or quickly buy out any vender they may chance to meet.

The "ole swimmin' hole" is in Accotink Creek, above Tobin's mill. It is just such a place as every one of us was familiar with in boyhood. At the bend of the creek the water deepens, and the old sycamores, leaning half-way across the stream, cast a cooling shade. One aged trunk, with broad limbs, slants up from the water's edgeto the deepest place, as if it had at some time said to itself, "Now, I'll make this an ideal swimming hole by furnishing the boys a place to plunge from." And so here is where the "immortal boy," since before George Washington surveyed the estate of Lord Fairfax, has spent such happy hours as live in the memory of the man forever.

The most prolonged and thorough bath the boys have taken was when they were out last week on their three days' march. Having pitched their flies—small tents just large enough for two men to creep under and sleep with their feet sticking out—officers and men make for the little stream like thirsty oxen on the plains. After a long and dusty march could they desire anything more delightful than what was offered by the cool depths of "Difficult Run?" The bountiful heavens, doubtless with the best intentions, sent them also a shower-bath. And such an one as it was! We thought it could rain at Jefferson Barracks. It doesn't rain so frequently here, but when it does rain it leaves nothing more to be asked for in that line.

The little stream was lashed into a fury, and the boys had to dive to keep from getting wet through. It rains on and on, and pours ever harder. It doesn't matter if the bathers do think they have enough—they get more. And where, meanwhile, are their clothes they would fain put on dry? They are taking a swim, too, and the dust of the hills far away is being thoroughly beaten out of them. Imagine the scene. The features of the picture, if you were to sketch it with Hogarth lines, would be high green hills rising steeply on either side; a narrow, winding valley, through which wanders the little stream; on the west bank of this rivulet, occupying the whole width of the vale and sloping up to meet the low pines on the western hills, some 2,000 toy-like tents, known in soldiers' parlance as "dog-tents" and "flies;" torrents of rain; in the spray and mist of mingling waters an indefinite number of indistinct forms appearing somewhat like the interminable line of royal ghosts in Macbeth. There was no complaint in camp of dry weather for twenty-four hours. D——, of Company C, had the opportunity of his life presented him, for he is an expert with the pencil, his talent amounting almost to genius.

Skirmishing in the woods and out-marches to the Potomac occupied the following day. For discipline the troops behaved withsuch caution and vigilance as they would observe in the enemy's country. And in the enemy's country, indeed, they were. That night, just after call to quarters had sounded and quiet had settled down upon the populous village of nomads, the order was passed through camp for every man to be ready to repel a sudden night attack, as a regiment of cavalry had been discovered in the neighborhood by the scouts. You might then have heard a hum of excitement and bustle of preparation, while a thousand bayonets clanked in their sockets and the boys placed their guns by their sides. As for the chaplain, he lay awake straining to catch every challenge and response in the most distant sentry lines, and expecting every moment to hear the blood-chilling yell of the on-rushing enemy as their horses should dash into our camp. The first thing he realized was a quick jerk given to his booted foot sticking from under his "fly," and then the words, "Up, Chaplain, the cavalry's coming." A red streak lay along the eastern sky above the hills; there was a low hum in camp, which was gradually increasing. Lieut.-Col. W——'s good-natured laugh said that it was all a joke, and the chaplain, without having to wait to dress, went off grumbling to the creek to wash his face and get ready for 4 o'clock breakfast. The enemy, for reasons sufficient to themselves, failed to carry out their programme.

Before sunrise the entire Third Regiment, leading the Third Brigade, having broken camp, was formed along the winding road that trails up the hillsides from the little valley, and was ready for the command "Forward." Before the dew had yet wholly vanished from the clover, and before the ripening blackberries had lost their morning coolness, we marched into the old camp led by the band playing "Dixie." We had marched about twelve miles in three hours and forty-five minutes, and only three men had to be brought in in the ambulances. It was remarked by some one that we went so fast we could not read the signs in Dunn Loring. Capt. S——'s funny man said it was because the chaplain was in front and he was leading them in "the straight and narrow way." Most of the officers marched with the men, and all enjoyed their morning walk.

There is no monotony in camp life. There is routine, of course, but many diversions and incidents, and something iscontinually happening. Last night in the small hours an order came from corps headquarters for a check-roll to be taken in every regiment instantly. For a few minutes just before midnight the whole camp was in a stir. "What was it for?" everybody was asking of everybody else. "Chesapeake Bay is full of Spanish gunboats, and they want us at once," said one of the sergeants to his men in hurrying them up. It became known this morning that a few hundred soldiers had been raising Cain at Falls Church, and Gen. Graham wanted to find out who they were. Hence this order for a check-roll. Two cavalry regiments were sent out to run in the hilarious lads, but they were only partially successful. The rest of the stampeders are reported to be in Baltimore and Philadelphia, and no one knows where else. The explanation is that the entire Sixth Pennsylvania took French leave for the Fourth.

The other evening, while I was singing with Company E, where my friend D—— belongs (whom, by the way, I wronged by intimating that the patch on his face was there as the sign of a good time passed at the "farm house," it being there, as he informs me, only to cover a boil), while we were singing some sacred songs after D—— had executed a fine jig on a foot-square board and the company's quartette has sung, "The bull-dog on the bank and the bullfrog in the pool," etc., a quick command was given for the company to "fall in" with their guns. They didn't wait for the benediction, and I fell in with them to go "where duty or danger called them." They were rushed in double-quick time into the officers' lane and halted. Then the cause of it all was whispered about. An obnoxious "shack" had been smashed into and the regiment was called out to capture those committing the deed. What happened? We met a crowd, surrounded by an armed posse, coming from that quarter and going rapidly toward the guard house. An investigation there revealed the startling fact that every one of the forty-odd boys surrounded and put under arrest at the canteen was utterly innocent. Every wrong-doer, of course, is innocent till proved guilty; but in the case of this crowd it soon became evident that innocence was indeed injured. They were nearly all "rookies"—that's the word for recruits. How could "rookies" be mixed up so largely in such an affair? A mistake has been made, that is plain.When the uproar occurred there had been a rush of the "rookies" to the spot to see what was going on; the raiders had fled and escaped, of course, and the "rookies" were hustled in. They learned a lesson early. A picture of them lined up two-deep and frightened by the menacing interrogatories of Col. Gross, while a flickering candle was thrust in the face of each one to discover who he was, and bristling bayonets stood around them; the disappointment of the officers as their mistake and failure became more and more apparent, the fright of the "rookies" as they stood there in the uncertain light and their old clothes, the glad expression of relief when they were ordered to be dismissed—this, too, would be a picture.

Evenings in camp, both among officers and men, are delightfully spent in such amusements as I have already described, in various kinds of farcical entertainments and in story-telling. The Irish element in the regiment is sufficiently prominent to keep everybody happy. A lady friend of our of Celtic stock visits us occasionally from Washington, and makes her visits memorable by the good Irish stories she tells. The other evening when she was here, and there was a lull in the conversation, she suddenly exclaimed, "Oh, do you remember the last time I was out here?" "Why, of course, we do," everybody replied. "Well," said she, "forget that and remember theMaine!" Whereupon the laughing and the story-telling began anew.

If a number of first-class romances do not grow out of the exchange of compliments between the soldier boys and the girls who crowded to the trains to see them on their way here, the postmaster of the Third will be much disappointed. Half of the mail sometimes is addressed to or comes from the numerous places where buttons were traded for bouquets, and sigh was given for sigh, and names were hastily exchanged, as the train sped away. All sorts of souvenirs are sent to Parkersburg, Athens, Cincinnati, and other places, where the senders knew not a soul before their journey through them. Unique methods of meeting the emergencies of army life are sometimes devised. One lad, having no paper, but a clean, white collar, for which he no longer has any use, fills it with a tender message, folds it in an envelope, and so gratifies his wish to communicate with the girl he left behind, while he gives her a souvenir she will cherish long and tell the story of many years afterthe war is over, and their grandchildren, perhaps, are gathered about their knees. Another boy has neither paper nor envelope, so he writes upon his cuff, links it together, stamps it, and so sends a message of romantic love to one, it may be, whose fond eyes and fascinating face he saw in some crowd in a strange place. If the chaplain does not have some work to do growing out of all this romance, the postmaster is no prophet, and both of them will be disappointed.

Rhymers and song-makers are not wanting. A letter left camp yesterday directed in the following poetical style:

"Hurry me away at a furious rateTo Kansas City, Missouri State,For Miss A—— R—— wants me there—And I'm no humbug, here's my fare."

"Hurry me away at a furious rate

To Kansas City, Missouri State,

For Miss A—— R—— wants me there—

And I'm no humbug, here's my fare."

Another letter was addressed by means of the same jingle—the name only being different. In this I regret to discover evidence that some young man is richer in sweethearts than in poetic devices.

A hardtack was addressed and sent without any envelope, bearing this rhymed message:

"I am a hard-tack that none can chewExcept a very brave boy in blue;No time nor season can alter me,I've been hard'ning since sixty-three;Coffee made of clay and rainHave tried to soften me in vain,And salt-horse grease has sought to meltOr touch my heart—it was not felt!"

"I am a hard-tack that none can chew

Except a very brave boy in blue;

No time nor season can alter me,

I've been hard'ning since sixty-three;

Coffee made of clay and rain

Have tried to soften me in vain,

And salt-horse grease has sought to melt

Or touch my heart—it was not felt!"

The most difficult problem in camp, as the situation appears to one concerned in the perpetual welfare of the men as citizen-soldiers, is to provide for their mental needs. Let me make ample provision for them in this respect and I will guarantee a good morality. Much of the time of the soldier in camp is necessarily unemployed—how shall he occupy himself? Idleness is the devil's great opportunity. The men of the Third have generally been accustomed to books,magazines and papers—only one man in the entire regiment could not sign his name and he is now dead. The desire for mental employment is, therefore, strong. If it can be met with good literature—as it must be met by some means—it will be far less likely to go out in unprofitable and perilous ways. We have made a good beginning in the way of ministering to the mental and moral needs of the men, having erected a tent 40 feet square and furnished it with tables and seats, and organ and song books, writing material, and magazines and papers. Its capacity, however, is altogether inadequate; it is not an uncommon thing to see it filled, and as many more sitting on the logs around it. We had a dedicatory service last Sunday morning, at which I spoke of the manifold and liberal uses to which it would be put and led the minds of the attentive audience from the meaning of the ceremony and of the ancient tabernacle in the wilderness to thoughts of the dedication and high uses of the true temple of God, which is man himself. Five enlisted men came forward to enlist under the banner of the cross and dedicate themselves to the cause of Christ.

I know these soldiers, and I know that their action is the result of sober thought and manly decision.

I have employed three or four details in building what they termed a "meetin' house." The first time I used a guard-house gang—about twenty boys in for over-staying their leave in Washington after pay-day. They kept up their waggery while bearing logs and building seats and sang, "There'll come a time, we pray, when we'll not have to build a church each day."

There are a half-dozen fellows in the guard house to-day. I just now promised them, to their delight, to take them out to-morrow and work them. They were glad to get out of the "cooler" on any terms. Yesterday I had a volunteer squad—not convicts—helping me "snake" logs with mule teams to our new meeting grounds by the tabernacle. Many provocations, of course, arose—mules, stumpy roads, contrary logs, pestiferous knots, etc. But when I saw some fellow getting wrathy over a justly provoking situation andstruggling with his righteous indignation, I spoke a timely word—sometimes too late—just to refresh his mind with the fact that he was working on a "meetin' house," and with and for the parson. Then we all had a laugh and worked on without cussin'.

These boys are now reading my letters. Half of them will read, or, gathered about in their company lanes, will hear read, this letter. As their friend who would not have them let this evil habit fix itself upon them, I would entreat them to guard themselves against profanity.

Last Saturday I received an interesting packet of letters from someone in St. Louis, who signed herself simply "R. S. M." The idea was so unique and feminine, and the letters gave so much amusement to the boys that I will tell you something about it. There were ten sealed envelopes in the packet accompanied by a note to myself, explaining the object to be to give a little amusement to the boys, and to help fill up a few minutes with "something unusual." Each letter bore a different address, some common name being selected, such as "Mr. Smith," "Mr. Jones," and so on. The inscriptions on the backs of the envelopes were the interesting exterior feature. One was addressed in this manner:

"When this you see, remember me."

"A valentine for a dyspeptic member of Company C."

Then on the back was the following:

"It is not a cent,Yet it is sent;It costs not a cent,Yet it gives a scent.""There's a conundrumSent to you;The answer's SCENT with it—'Tis 'lavender blue.'"

"It is not a cent,Yet it is sent;It costs not a cent,Yet it gives a scent."

"It is not a cent,

Yet it is sent;

It costs not a cent,

Yet it gives a scent."

"There's a conundrumSent to you;The answer's SCENT with it—'Tis 'lavender blue.'"

"There's a conundrum

Sent to you;

The answer's SCENT with it—

'Tis 'lavender blue.'"

Another was addressed, "For a good boy who may open this July 26, '98." On the back of this was written:

"From Illinois and California—A spray of the giant redwood tree, and a spray of the old fashioned 'yarb' our grandmothers used."

Another said on the back: "Just to let you know that some one thinks of the Missouri boys and wants to help them pass a minute away opening a curious envelope."

So they ran. The merriment occasioned by the distribution of these envelopes, as that addressed "to one who feels himself to be very young," was delivered to a bald-headed fellow, and the one addressed "to a good child," was delivered to one whom common acclamation pronounced to be worse than Peck's Bad Boy, would have gratified the sender with a vision such as she could hardly have expected.

A rhyme contained in the one addressed "to a dyspeptic," ran as follows:

"It is better to laugh than be sighing,And sighing's no sign that you're sad,'Tis often asine qua non, sir,That proves your digestion is bad."So smile at your previous groaning,And rejoice that you're grown past that stage;Help others to laugh and be happyAnd you'll live to a jolly old age."

"It is better to laugh than be sighing,And sighing's no sign that you're sad,'Tis often asine qua non, sir,That proves your digestion is bad.

"It is better to laugh than be sighing,

And sighing's no sign that you're sad,

'Tis often asine qua non, sir,

That proves your digestion is bad.

"So smile at your previous groaning,And rejoice that you're grown past that stage;Help others to laugh and be happyAnd you'll live to a jolly old age."

"So smile at your previous groaning,

And rejoice that you're grown past that stage;

Help others to laugh and be happy

And you'll live to a jolly old age."

Thanks to this thoughtful, gracious lady! She may never know how much good her little plan for cheering the boys has done and will do. She may remain hidden under the initials "R. S. M." But be sure such kind hearts and ingenious hands as hers make this old world brighter and better to live in. It is such little, delicate, thoughtful, feminine acts that bless our lives and do more good ofttimes than books and sermons.

The United Daughters of the Confederacy of St. Louis, the same day, sent us three dozen night shirts for our boys in the hospital. This was a most useful gift and amply supplies our regiment in this respect. We are awaiting with delight the fulfillment of their promise, made through their secretary, Mrs. W. P. Howard, to send us one hundred "sewing kits." These are not the first gifts to prove their patriotism and womanly sympathy for the soldier boys these Daughters of the Confederacy have sent us. Theirministration to the needs of the regiment began at Jefferson Barracks and has continued, with larger promises of future help.

The Soldiers' Relief Society of Kansas City, of which Mrs. A. W. Childs is president, has also sent many boxes of useful articles to be distributed to the soldiers. I was enabled this afternoon, by the provision of this society, to answer the call of the hospital steward for sheets by taking them two dozen white, clean ones, that surely will make the cot of pain more tolerable. At first, during even those days of extreme heat, you might have seen many a sick fellow lying in the hospital in his blue flannel field shirt. Now all is white and delightful to see, relieving the eye that must needs look upon suffering.

A few evenings ago, as I stood in front of headquarters with a reverend old gentleman, who had served as chaplain in the Civil War, watching together and commenting upon the varied scene before us, the galloping orderlies as they bore messages this way and that; the jolting heavy lumber wagons, drawn each by four mules, hauling rations for the regiments; the manifold activities of the soldiers, some carrying water in their large black buckets from the deep and excellent well the government bored for us; some with large boxes of rubbish which they were bearing, each box on two poles, toward the dumps; a crowd reading, writing and playing games in the Y. M. C. A. tent, while a half dozen boys on one side, among the logs under the great chestnut trees, were pitching rubber rings at pegs in an inclined board, and a like number on the other side were engaged in the old-fashioned farmers' Sunday game of pitching horseshoes, and the band, down in the little plain beyond the tents, was playing its beautiful strains while the guard was being mounted; there passed across this scene of many activities, an object frequently enough seen here, but never seen without its painful suggestiveness—it was the ambulance with the Red Cross upon its ground of blue. And the man of many years and large experience made a remark I shall not forget. "The Red Cross," said he, "is the sign of the highest outcome of our civilization. We had no such society as this in the Civil War. We had no such hospital system as you have. There is nothing, I repeat, that better represents the spirit of Christian civilization than the Red Cross."

While, therefore, as the vehicle thus marked rolled hastily by, giving its momentary pang of sympathy for some hurt or stricken comrade, its triumphant suggestion was of the mission of mercy unexampled in ages past, so supremely Christ-like.

That night, in one of the hospital tents, we sat by the bedside of his dying son. Through the long, slow hours, he upon one side and I upon the other, we watched the heaving breast of pain and the suffering face, and inquired of each other by looks, in the dim light, if there was yet hope for the strong, young soldier to win the battle he was contending in so bravely.

In the still evening air, from twenty hillsides, the mellow notes of the bugle bade good-night and peaceful sleep to the weary soldiers—and we thought eternal rest to the soul of the one we were so anxiously watching. Slowly the stars, however, went round in their courses and looked down—how calm and distant and seemingly all indifferent, upon the bowed head of the aged father as, toward morning, I could hear his regular, though feeble tread up and down outside. And then, as the bright sun rose, and the smoke from the campfires drifted off down the vales, making such a scene of idyllic beauty; then all the hills and valleys echoed with the sound of revéille calling to action, awakening to new hope and the new day's new opportunities. But not for one soldier was all this—his pulse of life beat too low. Till noon he lingered on wrestling with the last enemy, and, as the sun began to slope toward the west, his light on earth went out. In the prime of his years, one of the strongest among his comrades, after ten days of suffering, he passed away—Corporal John B. McNair, a soldier of his country, whose courage was shown not upon the field of carnage where the trumpet and flag inspire on to the deadly charge and heroic deed, but only in a battle where he fought alone, with nothing to inspire, nothing but now and then the kind look or word of comrades to cheer. But he died his country's defender in the cause of humanity. His will be a soldier's reward in heaven. It was last Saturday that, near the great and renowned, we laid him to rest in the beautiful grounds of Arlington.

Sunday morning, the 24th of July, after the regular preaching service, Company D, with a considerable number from othercompanies, met in the Y. M. C. A. tent to hold memorial services for Richard Maloy, who died two days before at Fort Myer, from where his remains were sent home for burial. Circumstances made the services nobly impressive. When the president's call for troops was first made, Richard and his brother Charles were at home with their widowed mother in Kansas City. Dick—so was he called by his friends—Dick said to his mother, "Mother, I will go." She replied, "One cannot go, my son, without the other." "Then," said Charles, the younger of the two, "I will go also." So they joined the Third Regiment and went out with their mother's blessing upon them. The rigor of army duty was too severe for their immature bodies. One day Charles, just after the return from the hard practice march, was assigned to outpost duty. Dick said his brother couldn't stand it, and applied to the sergeant to be put on in his place. The substitution was made. It killed Dick.

At the conclusion of the memorial, one of his comrades came to me with an open Testament in his hand, and, with breast choked with emotion, pointed with his finger to the passage: "Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends." That was enough; it told everything.

As for the mother, some said the sudden news would kill her. It did not. When her boys left home for the war it was then that she made her sacrifice and proved her high-minded maternity that could let the larger love of country and of mankind rise superior to the love of her own flesh and blood. She keeps up the traditions of antiquity. Sparta had not nobler women. Such mothers, who bless their parting sons and bid them go, can receive them, living or dead, comforted and exalted with pride that they were stirred by noble impulses and offered their lives in the cause of humanity. We never know the celestial quantities our every-day earth-born acquaintances possess until the hour of supreme need comes to evoke them.

The problem of taking care of an army's sick is indeed no easy one. Our army is still experimenting, or rather, it might be said, improving its system with some phases of the matter yet under discussion. The regimental hospital has been done away with, so that what was the hospital of the regiment is now only a medicaldispensary. Here, in response to the sick call at 6:15 every morning, you may see a crowd of soldiers, from 50 to 100 in number, lined up waiting to receive in turn their capsules and pills. Two long pine trees in front of our dispensary furnish acceptable seats to the weakened boys. In addition to medicines there is little else left of all the complete and excellent equipment the Third started out with, except a half-dozen or so litters, which are used for taking up the sick out of their tents or carrying them off the field to the dispensary until the ambulances can carry them to the division hospital. There never having been any brigade hospitals, there are in Camp Alger only division hospitals—first, second and third.

The Second Division hospital, where, as we belong to this division, our sick are cared for, is organized with thorough system. In general command there is some one of the regimental chief surgeons or brigade surgeons. Then there is a full corps of officers with various ranks and duties. There is a property officer with the rank of lieutenant, and so they run. The chief steward has under him four other stewards and about 220 nurses, there being 24 nurses from each regiment permanently detailed to this service. They are organized with captain, lieutenants, and sergeants, very much like a company, and have regular litter drills daily. There are three general wards, each making a white canvas hall-like chamber nearly 50 paces in length, and three special wards, of which one is for measles and another for critical ailments, and another for surgical cases. In a very serious case, two special nurses are called in and assigned wholly to its care.

The whole number of inmates from the nine regiments constituting our division—that is, about 11,700 men—has run on a daily average from 60 to 80. The more critical cases, where it is practicable or advisable, are removed to the Fort Myer hospital by the side of Arlington. The hospital, situated centrally with reference to the various regiments to which it belongs, now constitutes, with its numerous wards, its various officers' quarters, its kitchen and mess tents, and the large number of tents necessary for the nurses and stewards, a little camp all by itself. Around it its own guards keep up their regular tread, and down toward the general corral, where scores of government wagons and government mulesstand at feeding time, stand the dozen covered ambulances that go night and day on their faithful missions.

On Monday, of this week, the Third underwent inspection by the general inspection officer, Major Brown, of the Fourth Cavalry. Every man in the regiment, and all the quarters and accoutrements, came under the trained and uncompromising eye. At 8 a.m. the several companies were called in battalions to the parade ground, where the soldiers, each with his usual equipment of gun, knapsack, haversack, field-tent, and canteen, stood under the already hot sun to be examined. Then, after disburdening themselves, they were called out again to execute the movements which the inspector might require of them. Some phase of the inspection continued until late in the afternoon, when, beginning at 6 o'clock, the entire regiment passed in review before General Davis, division commander, and his staff. The fine showing we made elicited round after round of cheering from our New York neighbors, and, at the conclusion, high commendation from the reviewing general.

I will conclude with the presentation of another character. I had frequently heard of J——, of Company K, and desired to make his acquaintance. I was sitting on the band seats by our tall flagless flagpole, watching the effects of the sunrise and of the first bugle calls. I noticed some one advancing toward me from the direction of Company K, at the extreme north side of the camp. It might have been seen that, as he came on with grave and measured tread, the eyes of all his comrades were upon him. But it was equally apparent that he for his part disregarded everything. He came up, but spoke not a word and seemed to be aware of no presence or beholding eye. Then he gravely unrolled a cambric flag of the enormous and graceful proportions of 8 inches long by 12 inches broad, and, attaching it to the rope, hoisted it to the top of the pole, while his comrades loudly cheered and laughed at the joke—to all of which he was utterly oblivious—returning with as much gravity as he came. And the toy flag there floated where he raised it aloft, "frenetic," as Browning says, "to be free." This fellow's large-featured, benignant, Scottish face, with its fringe of hair entirely encircling it, spoke full plainly of a big, jolly, generous heart. The boys all call him "Honest Bill." The day we weregoing out on our practice march J—— thought he didn't want to go. In fact, he preferred to stay in the guard house. This was his scheme: He goes down to the line of guards, is challenged, makes a dash through, but returns and gives himself up. Quite successful! His large kindly face beams happiness. What does his captain do? Nothing but send him along on the march with the penalty of some days in the guard house hanging over his devoted head. This was enough to try any flesh and blood, and almost enough to provoke even a soldier to swear at his ill luck. I think J—— triumphantly resisted the evil one. When he returned to camp on the third day, a wiser and seemingly no less happy man, he threw down from his strong back not only his own burden of soldierly equipment, but the packs of two of his comrades also who had grown faint in the long march.

So I know J——. Who, from this, doesn't know J——? His heart, sure, is as big as his back is broad, and his nature as open as his face, which shines like a harvest moon. God bless all such comrades.

[There has been considerable said about the mistreatment of volunteer soldiers now in the service of the government, and much of the talk of suffering and want in the camps has been discredited because of its seeming ridiculousness. Americans are not ready to believe that the heads of the departments would permit the brave men to undergo the trials and sufferings that have been so graphically pictured by the newspapers, and the more conservative here put these idle rumors aside as the work of sensation-mongers.

Now a minister of the gospel, a man who is at the front with the soldiers, administering to them spiritual assistance and pointing them, in their dark hours of distress, to a brighter future, has raised his voice, and in words that sink deep into the heart and make the breast of men shudder, he tells us that our boys are being murdered; that the brave sons of Missouri are being cut down like grass before the scythe, through the neglect and tyranny of officers in the army who are supposed to look after their comfort.

Rev. R. T. Kerlin, chaplain of the Third Missouri Regiment, writes from Thoroughfare Gap, Va., to a brother minister at St. Louis, telling him of these things. Dr. Kerlin comes from Clay County, and the people of this city and this State know him.

Dr. Kerlin's letter is published herewith, but he admits that, as horrible as he has pictured the condition of the second division of the Second Army Corps, it is even worse than he has made it appear, and that the officers and men insisted that he make the truth more explicit that aid might be gotten to them by the patriotic people of this State, in whom they have confidence. The chaplain does not place the blame.]—The Kansas City Times.

The last week's itinerary of the second division of the Second Army Corps, General Davis commanding, has been written in curses. The results will be borne forever in the minds, hearts and bodies of 10,000 patriotic citizen-soldiers. Half-fed, wet and muddy, with no change of clothes, a score, on an average, in each company bare-footed, the volunteer soldiers of this division, as they go to their beds of wet straw under their low dog-tents that let the rain through like sieves or as they trudge through the mire of the stubble-field in which we are encamped to-night, can find no language but oaths to express their sense of ill-treatment.

Here is the story: It should be told in justice to these men, who have offered their lives for their country, who represent the best elements of our American citizenship, who are disposed to be manly, honest and long-suffering, it should be told. As their pastor, knowing what hardships they suffer, as well as what commandments they break, I will attempt the narration.

One week ago to-night—Tuesday, August 2d—the order was issued about 9 p.m. for the regiments constituting this division to break camp at 8 a.m. the next day. Morning came, and a hotter day has not dawned this hot season. An hour's delay, under heavy marching orders, was not rest. At 9 o'clock the Third Missouri, or rather two battalions of it, less the men who were bare-footed and sick, marched out of Camp Alger with the first Rhode Island, Second Tennessee, One Hundred and Fifty-ninth Indiana, Third New York, Twenty-second Kansas, Sixth Pennsylvania, Seventh Illinois, Ninth Massachusetts and the recruits of Duffield's separate brigade. Such forced marching was perhaps never required of soldiers not beating a retreat or hurrying to a strategic point or an imperative attack.

Within one hour after leaving camp the men were "killed." This is the way they express it. The sweltering heat, the dust, the humid atmosphere, the narrow, deep-cut, dusty roads, closed in by thick woods, combined to make the marching difficult. Besides each man carried a burden of not less than seventy pounds—gun, knapsack, haversack, blanket, poncho, field-tent, canteen, mess outfit and day's rations—what wonder that they fell out by dozens and scores? Experienced army men said they never knew of such a day's march. It was not the distance, for that was not so great. Itwas the conditions that have been only barely indicated, and the absence of any apparent reason for it all.

When Burk Station was reached three-fourths of all the men had fallen out. This is a conservative estimate.

When the Third Missouri marched to Difficult Run a few weeks before—a distance nearly as great—not 3 per cent of its men fell out. Company K, for example, lost not a single man on that march. This company arrived at Burk Station with fifteen men, all told, out of eighty-five that started. Other companies fared much worse.

Rest the next day was simply imperative. Most of the men who had no shoes had been left behind in the old camp. Now many others were in their bare feet on stony ground. Besides this, rations were inadequate. I saw men look at their petty dole of two onions, two potatoes, six hardtacks and a chunk of fat salt pork—the issue for a day—and in disgust toss it to the ground. Of course, the country was foraged. Those who fell out on the march were not going to starve in a land of plenty, even if a commandment, which they had respected hitherto, did say, "Thou shalt not steal." Nor was it likely that those who came into camp would be content with such scanty fare when corn in the fields about was in roasting-ear and potatoes were abundant, and chickens and turkeys at the farm-houses around threatened to make a night attack upon the camp unless they themselves were first surprised and captured.

The boys did not always stop with the confiscation of this small game. As they marched along the next day they amused the country people, who flocked to the roadside to see them pass, by asking, "Who killed the cow?" "Who killed the sheep?" and so on, and answering, "Such-and-such a regiment."

From Camp Alger to Thoroughfare Gap, where we are now sunk in yellow mud, not many farms within a mile of the road escaped a visit from soldiers, who took or were given something to satisfy their hunger. I rode on horseback behind the troops and made frequent side-excursions. My statements are based on what I saw with my own eyes and learned from the citizens and from the soldiers—the soldiers making no secret of the fact as they deemed themselves justified by the circumstances.

The march from Burk Station to Bull Run was through mud. The night before a heavy rain fell and every man in camp, possibly, got drenched. Still the marching was improved, but rations were shorter and shoes were more worn. But the boys kept up their spirits surprisingly, only saying they would never forget the Maine, not adding "to —— with Spain." It was Sunday. I don't know that this made them swear less—who could have told it was the Lord's day? If it had been in '62 and Stonewall Jackson had been just beyond the Berkshire Hills, advancing on one of his alarming maneuvers toward Washington, it would have been justifiable to order tents struck at 5 o'clock Sunday morning that we might advance and hold Thoroughfare Gap against the enemy. As it was—others besides the chaplain simply submitted.

Our camp on Bull Run was well situated. It could not have been healthier, the water supply for bathing purposes was the best we have ever had, and for drinking purposes was adequate and fairly good. But we were ordered to advance, and that night the soldiers who volunteered to serve their country in a Christian cause slept tired, hungry and wet, for another rain-storm beat through their little canvas kennels. Our camp this time was on Broad Run, near Bristow. Remaining here over Monday, we broke camp again this (Tuesday) morning, notwithstanding the fact that the rain had poured in torrents during the night that the sky was still overcast and lowering. As the men were marched out I asked a surgeon what he thought of it. His answer was one word, "Murder."

Did you ever hear your country cursed by foreigners? That is nothing; you know their curses harm her not, and despite all foreign prejudice she will march on in her great career. But do you know how it would make you feel to hear your own countrymen cursing the land that gave them birth? Cursing, not as tramps might, not as unthinking and harmless fools might, not as envious foreigners, but as patriotic, intelligent, but ill-treated and outraged soldier-citizens. I have to-day heard enough of this to grieve and sicken the heart. The men all day have trudged under their burdens, through miry roads, and waded running streams, that were sometimes waist-deep, and were drenched by two heavy rains. It israining now after "taps," and has been pouring down as it can only in Virginia, ever since evening mess at 5:30.

The men know that heavy blame rests upon somebody. They will doubtless be able to locate the responsibility before the march ends. I hope they will, for their indignation is too burning to be misdirected. The responsible party should bear it.

What sort of preaching will these men listen to? Who will dare to preach the commandments to them—except those they are in no danger of breaking? I think the wise and sympathetic Christ, who thought better of publicans and sinners than of the tyrannous and unmerciful rulers of His time would be able to speak words of comfort to these men and influence them to righteousness. But He would first feed them, so the unexampled story of His compassion relates—and there would be fragments to gather up. There are no fragments to gather up in our camp where a dog would starve to death if he depended on the castaway scraps—no fragments of fishes where wagon-grease and machine-oil are used by the soldiers for frying their potatoes in. As the disciples of the same divinely compassionate Friend were not forbidden by Him to pluck and eat the corn of the fields through which they passed, so shall my disciples, these soldier men, not be forbidden by me.

Whatever other preachers might do, I cannot preach to them so long as they are hungry, foot-sore, and suffering most of all under a sense of ignoble treatment, while our country knows not the measure of its ready wealth. Not long, I hope, will the citizen-soldiers, soon now again to be free citizens, lay the charge of blame to their country, but only to the incompetent or self-seeking parties who are responsible.

It is but the soberest judgment to say that, if all the volunteers have been dealt with as these have been, there could be no volunteer army raised in this country for years to come, should the need arise. It is well for the government to think of this. Again, the present treatment of the soldiers, by which they are driven to foraging and begging, is making the army a school for tramps. If these soldiers are soon mustered out in large numbers, this country will be overrun, harassed and terrorized by tramps.

Meanwhile, their endurance, their self-control, their discipline and good behavior can but be wondered at—not that all they do can be approved of by any means—but the conduct of men is largely determined by circumstances, and the circumstances in the present case are averse to all morality.

For our Country, in these days, to go to war is a very significant event. In former times, for other nations, it meant not so much; the provocation needed not to involve such high and general interests. To be on the warpath, to plunder and be plundered, to kill and be killed is with the barbarian the usual thing. Of our own Teutonic ancestors this was true less, much less, than ten centuries ago; and it is very slow indeed that we have outgrown their barbaric, warlike propensity. Still, warfare, with the advance of civilization and the increasing power of peaceful arts, with the spread and the strengthening of the sentiments of humanity, and with the deepening of the sense of universal human brotherhood, has gradually grown more and more to be deprecated, condemned and avoided.

Therefore, in the Nineteenth Century of Christ, the Prince of Peace, to take up arms and go to war against a sister nation and slay our brother man is a remarkable event, well worth the while of American citizens to reflect upon the causes—they must needs be unique, extraordinary, characteristic of the enlightened time and country in which we live. Could the provocation be other than of a moral and humanitarian nature? Must it not needs be addressed to Conscience and to the sense of all those high and Christian principles for which America stands? Surely, else, in this day, such sacrifice of life and treasure would never be made. And so it was in our recent war. The very sentiments which the Prince of Peace, the preacher of brotherhood, kindled in our hearts, were quickened into a flame of noble hostility against the barbarous oppressor of another people. Our very enlightenment of Conscience, our moral culture, our Christian spirit itself impelled us to war. Could we prate of fellow-sympathy, of brotherhood, of humanitarianism, and yet not make even the last effort, by a resort to arms, to deliver apeople down-trodden, plundered, enslaved? Never may our hearts be so hardened, never may our souls be so dead to generous impulse, never may our thoughts be so abjectly selfish, that we will not sacrifice all for human rights, for freedom, for justice, for the happiness and ultimate peace of the world.

I thank God for this war—it means so much for us, and through us for mankind. Look at its vast significance. Our nation has experienced a deep awakening such as this generation never felt before, and such as it needed. Its conscience has been cultivated; all the nobler sentiments of life have been given a wondrous new strength. These rose to dominion in our lives, new impulses moved us, new ideals passed before us—we have entered upon a new career of moral life, upon a higher plane, for we undertook a great work for humanity and counted not the cost. We became free from our habitual indifference, we despised our very lives, offering them a ransom for the oppressed. Such a six-months of self-forgetting morally enthusiastic life and oblation of peace, comfort, treasure, and blood, were worth more to us than any score of slothful years lived only for material gain. A nation may indeed be "beastly prosperous." America, thank God, is not; though prosperous, she is beyond example. Never did there live a people who made such worthy, such philanthropic uses of their prosperity. Never did rich and poor, the monarch of millions, and the possessor of a bare competence, make in any land or time so noble a use of his material means. Witness our colleges and universities, our churches and charitable institutions, our libraries and museums; witness this war for an oppressed people.

Thank God we are not insensible of high demands upon us! Thank God we are not wholly mercenary and materialistic! Thank God we are responsive, disinterestedly, but with wealth and life itself, to other claims than those of self and selfish getting and sending! We, who are called pig-stickers, are capable of generous action—we have given ourselves for the deliverance of the oppressed, thank God!

Who complains now that this generation is degenerate? Whonow is pessimistic? Who now taunts the youth of the land with being unworthy sons of worthy sires? Who that knows of San Juan and El Caney, of Santiago Harbor and Manila Bay, sighs for the heroic days of old and the braver men?

The events of the last six months should give us confidence in the better possibilities of ourselves. Europeans taunt us with having everything "big" but nothing "great;" big cities, big rivers, big lakes, big mountains, big crops, but no great works of art, no great achievements in science and literature, no great men. False to begin with. This generation is destined to prove it more glaringly so. There is nothing too great to be achieved by those who felt and responded to the high motive of this war.

What is the national result of the conflict? New impulses, new motives, new interests, new ideals, new duties, broader views, vaster undertakings, a richer national life. Put the oak that has planted his roots deep and far out into the nurturing soil and lifted his storm-defying brow toward heaven; put the lordly oak tree back into the acorn hull; or seize the strong-pinioned eagle after he has soared above the mountain peaks and challenged the tempests of the sea, seize and cage him again in his broken shell, and then you may hope to diminish our country to what it was, confining its expanded members by the old bonds and subjecting its enlarged activities to the old ideals.

When were the great days of Greece? After the stormy period of the Persian wars. It was struggle that made her great. It was Philip of Macedon that crowned Demosthenes prince of orators; it was Xerxes and Darius of Persia that laureled so many poets of the city they sought to destroy. It was the shock of the tumultuous waves of an invading host, it was the tempest of war that roused the life-forces of classic Helena, and after the days of heroic struggle came the period of great achievement in the pursuits of peace. It was then that art, sculpture, music, poetry, and eloquence flourished as never in secure days of slothful ease.

No argument this for wanton insolence, provoking war; far be it ever from us to be aught else than a peace-loving,peace-preserving nation; but, before God, realizing our great strength and high mission, let us ever hold some things inviolable and dearer than our own comfort, wealth and life. Still to be ready to fight and to die for justice and freedom to mankind marks a people as courageous and noble. Let such courage, such nobleness be forever the possession of the American people!

April 27.—Enlistment at Kansas City, Mo.May 7.—Departure for Jefferson Barracks.May 8.—(Sunday) Day of work, fasting and prayer in Camp Stephens.May 14.—Muster into the United States service.May 26.—Departure for Falls Church, Virginia.May 29.—(Sunday) Arrival, erection of tents.June 28-30.—Practice—march to Difficult Run.July 24-August 4.—First Battalion, Major Kelsey, at Colvin Run, constructing rifle-range.August 3.—Departure for Thoroughfare Gap.August 3-4.—Burk Station.August 5-6.—Bull Run.August 7-8.—Bristow.August 9-22.—Thoroughfare Gap.August 23-September 6.—Camp Meade, Middletown, Pennsylvania.September 6-9.—Return to Kansas City.September 9-October 21.—Fairmount Park.October 16.—Dismissal on 30 days furlough.October 21.—Camp Graham.Nov. 7.—Muster out.

April 27.—Enlistment at Kansas City, Mo.

May 7.—Departure for Jefferson Barracks.

May 8.—(Sunday) Day of work, fasting and prayer in Camp Stephens.

May 14.—Muster into the United States service.

May 26.—Departure for Falls Church, Virginia.

May 29.—(Sunday) Arrival, erection of tents.

June 28-30.—Practice—march to Difficult Run.

July 24-August 4.—First Battalion, Major Kelsey, at Colvin Run, constructing rifle-range.

August 3.—Departure for Thoroughfare Gap.

August 3-4.—Burk Station.

August 5-6.—Bull Run.

August 7-8.—Bristow.

August 9-22.—Thoroughfare Gap.

August 23-September 6.—Camp Meade, Middletown, Pennsylvania.

September 6-9.—Return to Kansas City.

September 9-October 21.—Fairmount Park.

October 16.—Dismissal on 30 days furlough.

October 21.—Camp Graham.

Nov. 7.—Muster out.

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