't "dress up;"
it's no use of my trying. If my vest buttons are in a line, I am far
in the rear. If I toe the mark, a fearful bulge indicates my position.
Once we had a new drill-sergeant, who was near-sighted. Running his
eye along the line, he exclaimed sharply:

"What is that man doing in the ranks with a base drum?"

He pointed at me; but I hadn't any drum; it was the surplus stomach,
that I couldn't, for the life of me, draw in. I am the butt of
numberless jokes, as you may well suppose. They have got a story in
the Guards, that, when I first heard the command "order arms," I
dropped my musket, and, taking out my notebook, began drawing an
_order_ on the Governor for what arms I needed. They say I ordered a
Winans steam-gun, with a pair of Dahlgren howitzers for side arms!
Base fabrication! My ambition never extended beyond a rifled cannon,
and they know it!

Although, in respect to size, I belong to the "heavies," my preference
is for the light infantry service. My knapsack is marked "Light
Infantry!" One evening the spectators seemed convulsed about
something, and my comrades tittered by platoons, whenever my back was
turned. It was a mystery to me till I laid off my knapsack. Some
wretch had erased the two final letters, and I had been parading, all
the evening, labeled, "LIGHT INFANT!"

The above is one of the thousand annoyances to which I am subjected,
and nothing but my consuming patriotism could ever induce me to submit
to it. I overheard a spectator inquire of the drill-sergeant one day:

"Do you drill that fat man all at once?"

"No," he returned, in an awful whisper; "_I drill him by squads!_"

I could have _drilled_ him, if I had had a bayonet.

Specifications have been published in regard to my uniform, and
contractors advertised for; the making will be let out to the lowest
bidder. In case the Guards are ordered to take the field, a special
commissary will be detailed to draw my rations.

[Illustration: The fat volunteer. See page 143.]

That reminds me of a harrowing incident. On last night's drill an old
farmer, who dropped in to see us drill, took me aside, and said he
wanted to sell me a yoke of powerful oxen.

"My ancient agriculturist," said I, smiling at his simplicity, "I have
no use for oxen."

"Perhaps not at present," quoth he, "but if you go to war you will
want them."

"For what?" said I, considerably annoyed.

"Want 'em to _draw your rations_!"

The Guards paid me a d