d upon the cruel ramrod you suffered slow torture
over the fire. Sliced, chopped, and pounded; boiled, stewed, fried, or
broiled, always a trusty friend, and sweet comforter.

Happy the "fire" where the "stray" pig found a lover, and unhappy the
pig! Innocence and youth were no protection to him, and his cries of
distress availed him not as against the cruel purpose of the rude
soldiery.

What is that faint aroma which steals about on the night air? Is it a
celestial breeze? No! it is the mist of the coffee-boiler. Do you not
hear the tumult of the tumbling water? Poor man! you have eaten, and now
other joys press upon you. Drink! drink more! Near the bottom it is
sweeter. Providence hath now joined together for you the bitter and the
sweet,--there is sugar in that cup!

Some poor fellows, after eating, could only sleep. They were incapable
of the noble satisfaction of "a good smoke." But there were some good
men and true, thoughtful men, quietly disposed men, gentle and kind,
who, next to a good "square" meal prized a smoke. Possibly, here begins
consolation. Who can find words to tell the story of the soldier's
affection for his faithful briar-root pipe! As the cloudy incense of the
weed rises in circling wreaths about his head, as he hears the
murmuring of the fire, and watches the glowing and fading of the
embers, and feels the comfort of the hour pervading his mortal frame,
what bliss!

But yonder sits a man who scorns the pipe--and why? He is a chewer of
the weed. To him, the sweetness of it seems not to be drawn out by the
fiery test, but rather by the persuasion of moisture and pressure. But
he, too, is under the spell. There are pictures in the fire for him,
also, and he watches them come and go. Now draw near. Are not those
cheerful voices? Do you not hear the contented tones of men sitting in a
cosy home? What glowing hopes here leap out in rapid words! No
bitterness of hate, no revenge, no cruel purpose; but simply the firm
resolve to march in the front of their country's defenders. Would you
hear a song? You shall,--for even now they sing:

"Aha! a song for the trumpet's tongue!
For the bugle to sing before us,
When our gleaming guns, like clarions,
Shall thunder in battle chorus!"

Would you hear a soldier's prayer? Well, there kneels one, behind that
tree, but he talks with God: you may not hear him--nor I!

But now, there they go, one by one; no, two by two. Down goes an old