July 3d. Yesterday I lost my dog Fogerty and didn’t find him until late in the afternoon.  He was up in front of the First Regiment, mustered in with the liberty party.  When he discovered my presence he looked coldly at me, as if he had never seen me before, so I knew that he had a date.  He just sat there and shook his bangs over his eyes and tried to appear as if he were somewhere else.  When the order come to shove off he joined the party and trotted off without even looking back, and that was the last I saw of him until this morning, when he came drifting in, rather unsteadily, and regarded me with a shifty but insulting eye.  I am rapidly discovering hitherto unsuspected depths of depravity in Mr. Fogerty, which leads me to believe that he is almost human.

July 4th. This has been the doggonest Fourth of July I ever spent, and as a result I am in much trouble.  All day long I have been grooming myself to look spic and span at the review held in honor of the Secretary when he opened the new wing to the camp.  I missed it.  I lost completely something in the neighborhood of ten thousand men.  It seems hard to do, but the fact, the ghastly fact, remains that I did it.  When I dashed out of the barracks with my newly washed, splendidly seagoing, still damp white hat in my hand my company was gone, and the whole camp seemed deserted.  Far in the distance I heard the music of the band.  Fogerty looked inquiringly at me and I fled.  He fled after me.

[Illustration:  “I LOST COMPLETELY SOMETHING IN THE NEIGHBORHOOD OF 10,000 MEN”]

“Fogerty,” I gasped, “this is a trick I have to pull off alone.  You’re not in on this review, and for God’s sake act reasonable.”

I couldn’t bear the thought of chasing across the parade ground with that simple-looking dog bounding along at my heels.  My remark had no effect.  Fogerty merely threw himself into high, and together we sped in the direction of the music.  It was too late.  Thousands of men were swinging past in review, and in all that mass of humanity there was one small vacant place that I was supposed to fill.  I crouched down behind a tree and observed the scene through stricken eyes.  How could I possibly have managed to lose nearly ten thousand men?  It seemed incredible, and I realized then that I alone could have accomplished such a feat.  And I had been so nice and clean, too, and I had worked so hard to be all of those things.  I bowed my head in misery, and Mr. Fogerty, God bless his dissolute soul, crept up to me and tried to tell me it was all right, and didn’t matter much anyway.  I looked down, and discovered that my snow white hat was all muddy.  Fogerty sat on it.

July 8th. As a result of my being scratched out of the Independence day review I have been tried out as punishment in all sorts of disagreeable positions, all of which I have filled with an inefficiency only equaled by the bad temper of my over-lords.  Some of these tasks, one in particular was of such a ridiculous nature that I refuse to enter it into my diary for an unfeeling posterity to jeer at.  I am willing to state, however, that the accomplishments of Hercules, that redoubtable handy man of mythology, were trifling in comparison with mine.