the middle, only to discover when too late that he was an
umpire. Two of our fellows claimed to have shot a buzzard, and contended
for the honor. When at last we saw real enemies, two platoons coming into
full view below us, we shot them all to pieces. An umpire told them that
they were dead, whereupon they formed in line and went through the manual
of arms, to get themselves warm. Then we were collected and marched back,
triumphant. It seems that we were told that if we held our line till one
o'clock, we won. It was past the hour, and our victory was complete. We
marched to camp in good spirits, being especially pleased to hear the
major (the opposing major!) compliment Captain Kirby on the excellence of
his trench. _Our_ trench! We finished two hundred and fifty feet in an
hour and twenty minutes. We are told that the trench was quite invisible,
even after we had begun firing, and that we were betrayed only by the
white bands on our hats.

I have talked with one of the men who was left at a bridge to tell any
pursuers that it was blown up. He said that it gave him great pleasure to
loll on the railing and watch a platoon ford the cold stream up to their
waists.

With great relief I left the ground. We have so carefully policed each
camping place that I had awful visions of having to fill in the trenches
and replace the sod. But by some arrangement with the owner of the land
we left the trenches as memorials of our great fight. How many cows will
they trap, I wonder.

Our breakfast was at six, and we had no lunch till two o'clock. Whether
we were hungry? In spite of this settled cold rain, which curiously is
from the west, the men are in good spirits, though they show it by
yowling at every bugle call that summons them out.

This letter is written up to date, and so I'll close it. Love from

DICK.

PRIVATE GODWIN'S DAILY LETTER

Cherubusco, Saturday the 30th, evening.
In a farmhouse kitchen, where some of my things are
drying, and where I, sitting in a CHAIR, am writing
at a TABLE!

DEAR MOTHER:--

Yesterday I said to Knudsen, while David listened, "The trouble with our
platoon is that we don't particularly care for our sergeants, and have
got into the way of _knocking_ them. I've done more or less of it myself.
Now it may be no more th