“And now let me attempt to give you a picture of our present situation, with some account of the way we live.

“Our camp may appropriately be called ‘Hut Village.’  Imagine several avenues lined with square log huts, surmounted by tent-coverings.  The logs are placed transversely, and are clipped at the ends, so as to fit each other more compactly.  In this way the interstices are made much narrower than they would otherwise be.  These, moreover, are filled in with mud, which, as you have probably heard, is a staple production of Virginia.  This is a good protection against the cold, though it does not give our dwellings a very elegant appearance.

“Around most of our huts shallow trenches are dug, to carry off the water, thus diminishing the dampness.  Most of the huts are not floored, but mine, fortunately, is an exception to the general rule.  My comrades succeeded in obtaining some boards somewhere, and we are a little in advance of our neighbors in this respect.

“Six of us are lodged in a tent.  It is pretty close packing, but we don’t stand upon ceremony here.  My messmates seem to be pleasant fellows.  I have been most attracted to Frank Grover; a bright young fellow of eighteen.  He tells me that he is an only son, and his mother is a widow.

" ‘Wasn’t your mother unwilling to have you come out here?’ I asked him one day.

" ‘No,’ he answered, ’not unwilling.  She was only sorry for the necessity.  When I told her that I felt it to be my duty, she told me at once to go.  She said she would never stand between me and my country.’

" ‘You must think of her often,’ I said.

" ‘All the time,’ he answered seriously, a thoughtful expression stealing over his young face.  ’I write to her twice a week regular, and sometimes oftener.  For her sake I hope my life may be spared to return.’

" ‘I hope so, too,’ I answered warmly.  Then after a minute’s silence, I added from some impulse:  ’Will you let me call you Frank?  I have a boy at home, not many years younger than you.  His name is Frank also—­it will seem to remind me of him.’

" ‘I wish you would,’ he answered, his face lighting up with evident pleasure.  ’Everybody calls me Frank at home, and I am tired of being called Grover.’

“So our compact was made.  I shall feel a warm interest in this brave boy, and I fervently hope that the chances of war will leave him unscathed.

“I must give you a description of Hiram Marden, another of our small company, a very different kind of person from Frank Grover.  But it takes all sorts of characters to make an army, as well as a world, and Marden is one of the oddities.  Imagine a tall young fellow, with a thin face, lantern jaws, and long hair ‘slicked’ down on either side.  Though he may be patriotic, he was led into the army from a different cause.  He cherished an attachment for a village beauty, who did not return his love.  He makes no concealment of his rebuff,