Who has done this deed? All are suspect, While yet the guilty one is undiscovered: We stand alike condemn'd, alike acquitted-- The guilty innocent, the innocent guilty. Let rigid search be straightway made. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Amidst all the scenes of wild fun which even the life of a private soldier is at times enlivened, events occasionally occur that have a depressing effect upon the mind. We had a "sergeant shoemaker" who was at the head of the bootmaking department of the regiment; he was the very soul of "element, divarshun, and fun," as my Irish comrades would say. It was his custom to visit the barrack-rooms every morning, generally while at breakfast, for the purpose of ascertaining whether any boots wanted repairing, or if any of us required a new pair. He always had a kindly word and a joke for such as he was well acquainted with, having served as a private in the ranks until promoted to his lucrative position. Going up to each of our beds, he would take down the boots from the shelf, and turn them soles upwards with as much diligence as the troop-farrier daily examined the shoes of our horses. "Pat," he would say, "you want a new pair of heels on these boots." "Fred, you are born to be a rich man: your boot-soles are worn out in the middle, and the sides are scarcely touched." "Terry, I must speak to Sergeant Williams," (the drill sergeant); "you are growing Sheffield-knee'd; the soles of _your_ boots are worn down on the inside and not touched on the outside." "Denny Smith, your mother must have reared _you_, for shure you must have been bow-legged from an infant; _your_ boot-soles are worn as much on the outside as Terry's are on the inside." "Arrah, now, Tim O'Leary, I wonder you're not ashamed of yourself for bringing disgrace on our illegant corps by wearing these thundering ould crab shells wid a patch on the side of each. Shure I'll go bail there's never a man in the regiment would wear a patch on his boots but yourself; I'll report you to your captain, so I will, for the sergeant-major told me your account has been quite clear these four months, and there's never a betther-looking dragoon in the service: pity that you should be spoiled entirely for the matther of a pair of illegant boots." In this fashion he would rattle away with his tongue while examining our boots, and, slinging such as wanted repairs over his arm, bustle out of one room into another.