‘Hurroo! here’s fowls. I’ve had nothing to rub the sweat off my teeth but stale bread, Hurroo!’ The time passed in Bulgaria by the light division would have been a long continued picnic had not pestilence come upon us, and cholera visited our camp in its most cruel form. It is very sad to recall to one’s memory that beautiful spot which simply by a change of wind was altered from a paradise to a place where death in one of its most horrid forms reigned supreme. We changed our ground very often, but the hideous demon followed us wherever we went, and we welcomed the order when issued for the light division to march to Varna, there to embark. One cold, raw evening, when cholera was at its worst, several of us were sitting in my tent drinking hot rum and water. The sergeant of my company came to make some report, and I offered him some hot grog, which he accepted. With the greatest care I mixed the drink, and gave it to him, while he made some kindly remark as he drank it off, and then went away. Some one else, coming into the tent soon after, was also invited to ‘liquor up.’ The mug in which the sergeant’s grog had been was still on the table, and the little that was left looked so curious that I put my lips to it, and was terribly distressed to find that I had used salt instead of sugar in concocting it. The great fear came over me that it would make the sergeant feel sick, and that he might fancy he had taken cholera; so I sent for him, and, when he came, I told him of my mistake. His answer surprised me; for he said he knew it was salt from the taste. ‘But, sergeant, was it not very horrid?’ I exclaimed. ‘Well, sir, it was rather nauseous,’ he replied. ‘Why did you drink it?’ I asked. ‘I did not like to let on that I knew it, as you had kindly given me the drink,’ was the astounding reply.