rubber blanket, and then a good, thick, woolen one, probably with a big
"U.S." in the centre of it. Down go two men. They are hidden under
another of the "U.S." blankets. They are resting their heads on their
old battered haversacks. They love each other to the death, those men,
and sleep there, like little children, locked in close embrace. They are
asleep now,--no, not quite; they are thinking of home, and it may be, of
heaven. But now, surely they are asleep! No, they are not quite asleep,
they are falling off to sleep. Happy soldiers, they are asleep.

At early dawn the bugle sounds the reveille. Shout answers to shout, the
roll is called and the day begins. What new joys will it bring? Let us
stay and see.

The sun gladdens the landscape; the fresh air, dashing and whirling over
the fields and through the pines is almost intoxicating. Here are noble
chestnut-oaks, ready for the axe and the fire; and there, at the foot of
the hill, a mossy spring. The oven sits enthroned on glowing coals,
crowned with fire; the coffee boils, the meat fries, the soldier--smiles
and waits.

But waiting is so very trying that some, seizing towels, soap, and comb
from their haversacks, step briskly down the hill, and plunge their
heads into the cool water of the brook. Then their cheeks glow with
rich color, and, chatting merrily, they seek again the fire, carrying
the old bucket brimming full of water for the mess. All hands welcome
the bucket, and breakfast begins. Now see the value of a good tin-plate.
What a treasure that tin cup is, and that old fork! Who would have a
more comfortable seat than that log affords!

But here comes the mail,--papers, letters, packages. Here comes news
from home, sweet, tender, tearful, hopeful, sad, distressing news;
joyful news of victory and sad news of defeat; pictures of happy homes,
or sad wailing over homes destroyed! But the mail has arrived and we
cannot change the burden it has brought. We can only pity the man who
goes empty away from the little group assembled about the mail-bag, and
rejoice with him who strolls away with a letter near his heart. Suppose
he finds therein the picture of a curly head. Just four years old!
Suppose the last word in it is "Mother." Or suppose it concludes with a
signature having that peculiarly helpless, but courageous and hopeful
air, which can be imparted only by the hand of a girl whose heart goes
with the letter! Once more, happy, happy soldier!

The ar