The column on the march is an amusing thing. Taken in little, I have got very familiar with the backs and legs of the four in front, Bann's springy tread, Clay's sturdy tramp, the little stiffness that shows in ancient Corder's gait, and the untiring litheness of Knudsen's swing. Beside me Reardon trudges silently, his hat always flopped a little over his eyes, his head up. Sometimes I make him talk, and have pried out of him much of his family history. Beyond him Pickle goes on springs, cracking jokes like a little internal combustion engine. And David, now very tanned and wide awake, finishes our four. Without looking, we know the voice of each of our neighbors behind or in front, even so far as the witless stutterer some squads ahead, or the flat-voiced constant querist somewhere behind. But now when he raises his song his neighbors shut him up. Our company in column always remembers who commands it. The first song we begin to sing, and the last we give up, is the Buzzard song, to show our loyalty. Incidentally the song has improved discipline, for yesterday when a buzzard approached us with the inevitable chocolate, tobacco, and matches, we passed him along down the line with the chorus, "Poor old buzzard, get away out of here," though, to be frank, the wording is somewhat stronger. No buzzard will ever get anything out of our company again when on the road, even though we may be at rest. Other little touches show our memory of the captain's injunctions. We have a sergeant who in former camps was demoralized by drilling under other officers, and who at times crosses his gun upon his shoulders as he marches. Then the whole column shouts at him till he takes it down. And when some other company passes us, with men carrying the guns by the straps, we shout: "Porter! Suit-case men! Red-caps!" It is fine to march in a column of men and know the current of energy that flows along it. However many miles you have marched, however tired your feet and back and arms may be, in the knowledge that you are one of a disciplined regiment there is something that strengthens you and keeps you going. For in one sense Route Step, when you may go as you please, is a fiction; we must still keep so close together that to preserve the step and the cadence is almost a necessity, and though we carry our pieces at ease, we still swing along together. And as you look along rising ground, and see the hundreds of men ahead, and know there are as many more behind, all going, going, the knowledge that you are a part of that machine, and that to fall out would be to mar it and to cut yourself off from it, keeps you still moving on your weary pins.