, and has since been converted to a kitchen. The floor
is rudely laid, and the bricks gape here and there. A barrack fender
guards the fire-place, and a barrack poker reposes in the fender. It
is a very ponderous poker of unusual size and the commonest
appearance, but with a massive knob at the upper end which was wont to
project far and high above the hearth. It was to this seat that
Slyboots elevated himself by his own choice, and became the Kitchen
Crow. Here he spent hours watching the cook, and taking tit-bits
behind her back. He ate what he could (more, I fear, than he ought),
and hid the rest in holes and corners. The genial neighborhood of the
oven caused him no inconvenience. His glossy coat, being already as
black as a coal, was not damaged by a certain grimeyness which is
undoubtedly characteristic of the (late) armorer's shop, of which the
chimney is an inveterate smoker. Companies of his relatives constantly
enter the camp by ways over which the sentries have no control (the
Balloon Brigade being not yet even in the clouds); but Slyboots showed
no disposition to join them. They flaunt and forage in the Lines, they
inspect the ashpits and cookhouses, they wheel and manoeuvre on the
parades, but Slyboots sat serene upon his poker. He had a cook-house
all to himself.... He died. We must all die; but we need not all die
of repletion, which, I fear, was his case. He buried his last meal
between two bricks in the kitchen floor, and covered it very tidily
with a bit of newspaper. The poker is vacant. Sir, I was bred to the
sword and not to the pen, but I have a foolish desire for literary
fame. I should be better pleased to be in print than to be
promoted--for that matter one seems as near as the other--and my wife
agrees with me. She is of a literary turn, and has helped me in the
composition of this, but we both fear that the story having no moral
you will not admit it into your Owlhoots. But if your wisdom could
supply this, or your kindness overlook the defect, it would afford
great consolation to a bereaved family to have printed a biography of
the dear deceased. For we were greatly attached to him, though he
preferred the cook. I can at any rate give you my word as a man of
honor that these incidents are true, though, out of soldierly modesty,
I will not trouble you with my name, but with much respect subscribe
myself by that of

SLYBOOTS."

The gallant officer is too modest. This biography is not only tru