You get hungry in camp, and must be fed. Our camp chest is packed up under a tree, but on the other side of the tent is a pan with some stewed goose and corn bread. I cannot step into the mud unless I struggle into those boots again; but near me is an axe. I slip down to the end of the cot, and, with the axe, fish the pan of goose out of the little lake it stands in. The unhappy bird swims in a gravy of rainwater, and the corn bread is soaking wet; plates and forks are in the camp chest; but I have my pocket-knife, and with it eat a saltless supper. My little German orderly comes in after awhile, and, giving a soldier's salute with great ceremony notwithstanding the rain, says: "Captain, fot orders." "Bischoff, we must have some coffee. Tell Anderson (our contraband) to bring it." "But, captain," says Bischoff, "the tent, he blow down--the cook, he go away to a barn--the fire, he go out--the wood, he is wet and will no burn." "But, Bischoff, we _must_ have some coffee, we shall die if we don't. There is the coffeepot, with a package of ground coffee inside--get some water, and go up to Captain K.'s tent, and ask him to let you make it on the stove." "Yes, captain," and Bischoff departs. By and by he comes back with the coffee; we sit up and drink it scalding hot, and, quite revived, say, "now for a smoke." My pipe and tobacco bag are always in my pocket--those North Moore street bags are much more useful than their makers ever dreamt they would be--a dry match is at last induced to go, the wet blankets grow warmer, and we express the opinion that "this is really comfortable." "Well, captain, any more order?" says Bischoff, who is also revived by his share of the coffee. "Yes, Bischoff, tell Sergeant Starleigh to be ready, with two men, to go with me in the morning--you will be the fourth; and mind and have the horses ready by seven." "Yes, captain." Bischoff goes out, draws the tent opening closely together, holds his hand over his pipe to keep it dry; and then we hear his steps slowly receding--sqush--sqush--sqush through the mud. My dreams are entirely of boots, and they wake me early. Then commences a struggle for (outside) existence. Twice I take out my knife and meditate the last resort, and twice my hand is stayed by the thought that there may be no shoemaker in all Tennessee. It grows later and lighter, and I shall miss the morning roll-call for the first time since I have been in service. But the colonel saves me from breaking my rule. He thinks it too bad to make the men stand out in the wet, and has ordered the buglers not to sound the reveille. While resting, I betake myself to the goose--now truly a waterfowl and wetter than he ever was in his life--and manage to breakfast between the struggles. At last I am victorious, and have the boots beneath my feet, and go out to look around. The poetry most appropriate to the occasion would be a verse of that little infant school hymn,