The next morning found Hopeful, with a dozen others, in charge of the lieutenant, and on their way to join the regiment. Hopeful's first experience of camp-life was not a singular one. He, like the rest of us, at first exhibited the most energetic awkwardness in drilling. Like the rest of us, he had occasional attacks of home-sickness; and as he stood at his post on picket in the silent night-watches, while the camps lay quietly sleeping in the moonlight, his thoughts would go back to his far-away home, and the little shop, and the plentiful charms of the fair-haired Christina. So he went on, dreaming sweet dreams of home, but ever active and alert, eager to learn and earnest to do his duty, silencing all selfish suggestions of his heart with the simple logic of a pure patriotism. 'Hopeful,' he would say, 'the Banger's took care o' you all your life, an' now you're here to take care of it. See that you do it the best you know how.' It would be more thrilling and interesting, and would read better, if we could take our hero to glory amid the roar of cannon and muskets, through a storm of shot and shell, over a serried line of glistening bayonets. But strict truth--a matter of which newspaper correspondents, and sensational writers, generally seem to have a very misty conception--forbids it. It was only a skirmish--a bush-whacking fight for the possession of a swamp. A few companies were deployed as skirmishers, to drive out the rebels. 'Now, boys,' shouted the captain, 'after'em! Shoot to kill, not to scare 'em!' 'Ping! ping!' rang the rifles. 'Z-z-z-z-vit!' sang the bullets. On they went, crouching among the bushes, creeping along under the banks of the brook, cautiously peering from behind trees in search of 'butternuts.' Hopeful was in the advance; his hat was lost, and his hair more defiantly bristling than ever. Firmly grasping his rifle, he pushed on, carefully watching every tree and bush, A rebel sharp-shooter started to run from one tree to another, when, quick as thought, Hopeful's rifle was at his shoulder, a puff of blue smoke rose from its mouth, and the rebel sprang into the air and fell back--dead. Almost at the same instant, as Hopeful leaned forward to see the effect of his shot, he felt a sudden shock, a sharp, burning pain, grasped at a bush, reeled, and sank to the ground. 'Are you hurt much, Hope?' asked one of his comrades, kneeling beside him and staunching the blood that flowed from his wounded leg. 'Yes, I expect I am; but that red wamus over yonder's redder 'n ever now. That feller won't need a pension.' They carried him back to the hospital, and the old surgeon looked at the wound, shook his head, and briefly made his prognosis. 'Bone shattered--vessels injured--bad leg--have to come off. Good constitution, though; he'll stand it.' And he did stand it; always cheerful, never complaining, only, regretting that he must be discharged--that he was no longer able to serve his country.