plashy, thick, heavy,
dirty mud. Thousands of men and thousands of mules and horses are
treading it to mortar. It is mixed with slops from the houses and straw
from the stables. You are reminded of the Slough of Despond described by
Bunyan in the Pilgrim's Progress,--a place for all the filth, sin, and
slime of this world. Christian was mired there, and Pliable nearly lost
his life. If Bunyan had seen Cairo, he might have made the picture still
more graphic. There are old houses, shanties, sheds, stables, pig-sties,
wood-piles, carts, wagons, barrels, boxes, and all the old things you
can imagine. Pigs live in the streets, and there are irrepressible
conflicts between them and the hundreds of dogs. Water-carts, drays,
army-wagons, and artillery go hub deep in the mud. Horses tug and
strive, rear, kick, and flounder. Teamsters lose their footing. Soldiers
wade leg deep in the street. There are sidewalks, but they are slippery,
dangerous, and deceptive.

It is Sunday. A sweet day of rest in peaceful times, but in war there is
not much observance of the Sabbath. It is midwinter, but a south-wind
sweeps up the Mississippi, so mild and balmy that the blue-birds and
robins are out. The steamboats are crowded with troops, who are waiting
for orders to sail, they know not where. Groups stand upon the topmost
deck. Some lie at full length in the warm sunshine. The bands are
playing, the drums beating. Tug-boats are dancing, wheezing, and puffing
in the stream, flitting from gunboat to gunboat.

The shops are open, and the soldiers are purchasing
knickknacks,--tobacco, pipes, paper, and pens, to send letters to loved
ones far away. At a gingerbread stall, a half-dozen are taking a lunch.
The oyster-saloons are crowded. Boys are crying their newspapers. There
are laughable and solemn scenes. Yonder is the hospital. A file of
soldiers stand waiting in the street. A coffin is brought out. The fife
begins its mournful air, the drum its muffled beat. The procession moves
away, bearing the dead soldier to his silent home.

A few months ago he was a citizen, cultivating his farm upon the
prairies, ploughing, sowing, reaping. But now the great reaper, Death,
has gathered him in. He had no thought of being a soldier; but he was a
patriot, and when his country called him he sprang to her aid. He
yielded to disease, but not to the enemy. He was far from home and
friends, with none but strangers to minister to his wants, to comfort
him, t