by the non-commissioned officers, it was very evident today that ours had not sufficient control over us because they had not sufficient control over themselves. They were new to their responsibility, and did not understand how to handle the particular problem. And if we had needed another example of what was lacking, it was at hand in a few minutes when on our way to camp, and seeing the tents in plain view across a stream, the captain decided to save us a half-hour by fording. So he led the way down into the water, the lieutenant at his side discussing, tramped across the shallow river, and marched on, whether forgetting us or testing us I do not know. The first squad or two followed gamely, the next faltered, and all the rest spread out in confusion and tried to cross dry-shod. I am glad to say that Squad 8 hung together, hopped over quickly, formed and went on. After a hundred yards we came up with the captain, who was just sending back a sergeant with the message, "Help all the girls across." When once we were assembled he gave us his solemn promise never to try to save us work again. What would prevent such blunders in future? I will admit that in each such case non-coms from the regular army would have steadied us and kept us right. Yet I am convinced that what will best control the Plattsburg rookie is the Plattsburg non-com. All we need is to develop a body of them. The regular may serve at a pinch, but in the cases where moral control is more needed than a little knowledge or habitual steadiness, the appeal comes strongest from a man of our own kind. I suppose that only the shower saved us from an awful roasting at the conference. The camp is rather picturesquely situated in a broad field that stretches down to swamps and woods, the cavalry at a slight distance across a little swale. Our squad was on police duty for a while, and I was orderly for an hour. The lady buzzards of the town have spread a chicken dinner, at a dollar a head, in the town hall, and many of our fellows have slipped away to it. Yet at dinner-time I saw poor Pickle sitting by the water-barrel, a plate of beans in his lap. I asked innocently, "Why aren't you at the chicken dinner?" "Don't ask foolish questions," he snapped. "Can't you see I'm tied here to serve out water?" I went for my bath down to our little river, which bears the imposing name of the Great Chazy; it wanders idle from pool to pool along its half dry bed. In one of the natural bath-tubs I had a fine wash, finding a pool up to my knees, clear cold water where minnows swam trustingly about, and where crawfish, the first I have ever seen, came like little pink lobsters to investigate my toes. After the stagnant brooks at our last two camps, it was delightful to find this clear water and actually get _under_ it.