little rest, and was ever seeking to draw his lines nearer to Boston and the enemy’s ships.  He virtually fought with pick and shovel, and his working parties were often exposed to fire while engaged in fortifying the positions successively occupied.  The Opinquake boys regarded themselves as well seasoned to such rude compliments, and were not a little curious to see how Zeb would handle a shovel with cannon-balls whizzing uncomfortably near.  The opportunity soon came.  Old Put himself could not have been more coolly oblivious than the raw recruit.  At last a ball smashed his shovel to smithereens; he quietly procured another and went on with his work.  Then his former neighbors gave him a cheer, while his captain clapped him on the shoulder and said, “Promote you to be a veteran on the spot!”

The days had grown shorter, colder, and drearier, and the discomforts of camp-life harder to endure.  There were few tents even for the officers, and the men were compelled to improvise such shelter as circumstances permitted.  Huts of stone, wood, and brush, and barricades against the wind, lined the hillside, and the region already was denuded of almost everything that would burn.  Therefore, when December came, Zeke Watkins found that even a fire was a luxury not to be had without trouble.  He had become thoroughly disgusted with a soldier’s life, and the military glory which had at first so dazzled him now wore the aspect of the wintry sky.  He had recently sought and attained the only promotion for which his captain now deemed him fitted—­that of cook for about a dozen of his comrades; and the close of the December day found him preparing the meagre supper which the limited rations permitted.  By virtue of his office, Zeke was one of the best-fed men in the army, for if there were any choice morsels he could usually manage to secure them; still, he was not happy.  King George and Congress were both pursuing policies inconsistent with his comfort, and he sighed more and more frequently for the wide kitchen-hearth of his home, which was within easy visiting distance of the Rolliffe farmhouse.  His term of enlistment expired soon, and he was already counting the days.  He was not alone in his discontent, for there was much homesickness and disaffection among the Connecticut troops.  Many had already departed, unwilling to stay an hour after the expiration of their terms; and not a few had anticipated the periods which legally released them from duty.  The organization of the army was so loose that neither appeals nor threats had much influence, and Washington, in deep solicitude, saw his troops melting away.

It was dark by the time the heavy tramp of the working party was heard returning from the fortifications.  The great mess-pot, partly filled with pork and beans, was bubbling over the fire; Zeke, shifting his position from time to time to avoid the smoke which the wind, as if it had a spite against him, blew in his face, was sourly contemplating his charge and his lot, bent on grumbling to the others with even greater gusto than he had complained to himself.  His comrades carefully put away their intrenching tools, for they were held responsible for them, and then gathered about the fire, clamoring for supper.