Corporal A. McCulloch was the leader of tent No. six. This was the intellectual tent. Beneath its classic folds weighty questions of state were argued and settled. The crowd in this tent claim that nightly they were lulled to rest by the voice of their learned corporal in the throes of some mighty argument; through the long stretches of the night when they would occasionally awaken they would still hear his voice; as if he were engaged in some great controversy. Morning found him awake, physically, but the restless brain had not slept, and now, with freshened physical senses, he still continued his interminable argument. But he had aids and abettors in the persons of Henry Adams and R. L. Radke (all will recall the soldierly appearance of the last-named gentleman). Radke the younger, Max and George Claussenius, F. J. Sindler and H. C. Warren were the unfortunate and paralyzed listeners. The seventh tent was called the German tent. Sergeant Sturdivant, the leader of this crowd, is so tall and thin, that it is a surprise to him when he casts a shadow. He is quite a society man, and a favorite among the ladies. Another social favorite, Humphrey Sullivan, is also in this tent. He sings so sweetly that we enjoy it very much, more so if he were accompanied by a brass band. In this tent we have two other stars in the vocal line, Al Gehret, a basso, and William Baumgartner, a tenor, who can reach high “C” without an effort. In this crowd was Fetz the long, Zimmerman the short, also called Punch for short, and A. Heeth, Jr., with whose kindly aid we kept our rags together. This concludes the description of the tents of the enlisted men and their occupants. Only a week previous these men won the Dimond trophy, at the yearly encampment of the regiment, for being the best drilled and best disciplined company in the camp. After our return from supper at one of the hotels, on this first evening, those who were weary sought the seclusion of their tents; the rest gathered beneath the trees and sang of love, but not of glory. Private Tooker sang “Sweet Marie” with such pathos and expression, that a tear was seen to tremble on the eyelid of Overstreet, and then silently wend its way down to the point of his nose, where it hung suspended for a while as if reluctant to part from him and then fell to the earth with a loud splash. Thus we whiled away the hours, till the bugle’s mellow notes swelling on the midnight air and thrilling the hearts of all with its sweet, solemn music, sang the call to rest, and then all was still.