Last night, after I had mailed my letters, I stood about and watched the camp with its always varied picturesqueness--the many fires, the drifting smoke lit up by flames, the groups here and there, the undertones of talk, the singing. The buzzard song has instantly become popular, and the lieutenant's platoon have a chant of praise to him--I don't know all the words as yet. "He's on the job, boys, To find some nice wet moss to lie on, For today we march Thro' (dum ti dum) to Ellenburg, Dum, dum, ti dum dum (here memory fails) Prepare to rush, Thro' mud and slush, God help the man that tries to shirk!" Besides these there have come to us from other companies, and indeed from earlier camps, other ditties, not vicious but unquotable, horribly amusing _men's_ songs. I gave up watching at last, and made my bed, which was not so easy as usual, since my poncho, being old, has taken to stiffening in its folds after wetting, and when I shook it out, just plain cracked. Besides, its intimate acquaintance with barb-wire has resulted in various tears, notably a long slit and some "barn-doors." So seeing its usefulness departing, I chiefly made use of my blankets and overcoat, in which latter I slept, and found myself perfectly warm. Today we were up earliest, packed in a hurry (which never, however, allows leaving the ground untidy) and were off as an advance flank guard to protect the march of the baggage train and main body on the straight road here, we going on a parallel line over whatever country we found. We marched out of camp, went a mile to the west, and then turned south--and a little ripple of joy went through the company. For it was our first step toward Plattsburg and _home_. The men are all looking forward to the breaking up of camp--not that they are feeling any hardship, but that they are anticipating the set end of things, and thinking of home life again.