We had our dinner, which I put in my meat-can under the hay to keep hot while I rested, then ate and felt refreshed. Then the afternoon we had to ourselves, if you can so consider it when we have to clean our guns, clean ourselves, come to conference, and come to Retreat. For my own part, having yesterday sampled the slimy brook and having no taste for it again, I washed my face and hands (after cleaning my gun) in a little water from the canteen. Thus I am staying dirty. It is no more than I have done before, in the deep woods. "That was some hike we had this morning," calls Bannister to a friend across the street. Such is the general opinion, especially Reardon's, who slept till he had to be roused for conference. And I want especially to chronicle that it was David who, declaring that Reardon would get rheumatism from the bare ground, roused him enough to get him onto his blankets in the tent; it was David who sat by him and prevented anyone from waking him; and it was David who after cleaning his own gun, which work the lad does not enjoy, cleaned Reardon's. The story goes now that the stolen clip of ball cartridges has been found and confiscated. Its location is ascribed to every company in the regiment, including ours. Our blanks we use very freely, being supplied every morning with any number from fifty up. And wherever we shoot them in any quantity, buzzards still flock together to rummage in the underbrush. You ask the meaning of Retreat. It is the last ceremony of the military day, when the colors are furled. The companies are called together, each at the end of its street, so that they are in order one behind the other. Sometimes we are drilled in the manual, sometimes we have rifle inspection; but as soon as the bugle sounds the warning call we come to parade rest. Then the band plays the Star Spangled Banner, after which we stand at attention while the bugler plays the beautiful "To the Colors." The flag is furled, and everyone not in line, cooks, orderlies, all except the buzzards, likewise stand at attention during the call, and at the end salute. Then promptly we are dismissed and allowed to hope for supper. Our diet is the same monotony of wholesome, plentiful food. I am flourishing on it; Corder is proud of requiring nothing else. On the other hand some complain, and Pickle, having a sweet tooth, at the end of a meal will often go out and feed himself with boughten pies and doughnuts. For you must understand that not only do the buzzards follow us from camp to camp, but every farmer's wife along the line of march or near our camp bakes a batch of her favorites and puts out a sign. Those along the road must be disappointed; none of us ever fall out. But they make a good sale outside the camp. David, who has become very strict with himself, is trying to save Pickle from his indulgences, but so far without success except that Pickle has become very sly about slipping away.