The hospital continued crowded, and we occupied the room with the officers several weeks. They were Captain Hensler, of Peoria. Ill.; Captain Armstrong, Lieut. Watt and several others whose names I can not recall. My mother cooked by a large, open fireplace, and shared all she had with these sick men. There was plenty of raw material, but it was so poorly prepared by the negroes about the place that the men could not eat it with any relish. A colored woman, who had been a slave, brought provisions to our room each morning, and her one theme was, “It’s mighty good.” Captain Hensler convalesced rapidly, and with tears in his eyes, he told my mother he owed it all to the nourishing food she prepared for him. Lieut. Watt and I became great chums. While in this room I wrote a letter to my teacher at home, which he addressed for me, and upon learning that the teacher was a young lady, he laughingly asked me if I thought there would be any chance for him. This letter was read to the school, and for a few days I was quite famous in my native town. My baby sister and I soon became great favorites in camp and hospital. On the night of our arrival the baby cried, and the word went around from room to room: “There’s a baby in the house. Where did it come from? Bring it in.” And in due time she was taken into the rooms where there were no contagious diseases. The men were much cheered by her presence, and one of the doctors said it was “quite a treat to hear a baby cry.” Dr. Robins, the surgeon in charge of our ward, would carry her about the room at each visit he made, sometimes taking her down stairs into the hall and out into the grounds about the building, I following wherever he went. The doctor called her his “little rosebud.” One day she scratched his face until the blood came, and he bore the marks several days. I can see him now, a slight, fair-haired young fellow, and, strange as it may seem, after the lapse of all these years, I can hear the very sound of his voice, as, upon entering the room, he would throw back his head and laughingly call out “Where is my Little Rosebud?” He told us of the friends he left at home, but alas! for them, he died the following summer of smallpox, in Memphis, Tennessee. IN CAMP OVER the roadway leading from hospital to camp, I have doubtless traveled many miles. The large space was thickly dotted with white tents, temporary homes of the brave defenders of our country. Here I became familiar with martial music. I returned with “taps” and arose with “revielle,” and to this day the sound of fife and drum stirs every drop of patriotic blood in my veins and takes me back to the days of camp life at Corinth.