heart, too. If you have a heart yourself to appreciate and sympathize with every brother man you will feel, deep down in it like saying, "God bless you, D——, and give you joy."

Then H——, tall, gaunt, sallow and dry, will recite "St. Peter at the Gate;" S—— will render "The Picture on the Barroom Floor;" N—— will perform on the flute; a half-dozen couples will give a cake-walk, the ladies being distinguished by a handkerchief tied over the head and a poncho around the waist, and better walking you must admit you never saw. Then regretfully we hear the bugle sound tattoo; in fifteen minutes "quarters" will sound, and, in yet another quarter of an hour, "taps."

Some sacred songs are now called for. The chaplain has been present at all the performance, and his interest and delight have been unfeigned. It may be some boy has let slip a word he wouldn't have spoken if the light had been bright, revealing the chaplain.

It may be a hot drop of tallow has fallen upon the hand of some fellow and burnt it while he was intently listening to a song; then he may have spoken hastily. He afterward comes and asks the chaplain's pardon. The whole affair—the various performances and the conduct of the boys, courteous, free and jolly, has been gratifying to the chaplain, and he tells them so, adding a word of encouragement and of counsel. All the boys now want to sing the favorite song of the camp. We, perhaps, have sung "Rock of Ages," "Yield Not to Temptation," and other old familiar hymns, for they like these best. But now they want to sing, "Nearer My God to Thee," which, because it is best of all, we have put off to the last. Then, with a brief prayer, it may be, for God's blessing upon the soldier boys, and for His protection and guidance, the chaplain dismisses them, while, with heads bowed in reverence, under the stars, heaven's solemn peace seems to have descended upon them.

Then the most beautiful of all the bugle calls sounds out into the stillness of the night. It is "taps." How melodiously it invites to sweet and peaceful rest. The words but feebly suggest the mellow notes of the bugle:

Many things that would be interesting features in a spectacular performance would have to be left out, I fear. You could not, for example, present upon the stage our last Sunday morning's 8 o'clock service. But what pertaining to the whole camp could be more important from any point of view? The marching of the company squads in almost full, though voluntary attendance, to the grove, and taking an easy position on the grass about the improvised pulpit beneath the tall forest trees, the inspiring music, the respectful, unbroken and solemn attention given to the sermon, the profound impression, deepened by the response given by some who came forward to witness before all to their acceptance of the Savior Christ and their purpose to follow Him, then the evening service of song, at which still others, with the like courageous and noble decision make choice of the true way of life—this, taken along with the fact that the boys of this regiment are manly, high-spirited and well-behaved, would be impressive, though only suggested by words.

A true presentation of the Third would, I think, give assurance to many a mother, sister and sweetheart, anxious and prayerful for the welfare of her soldier boy. She would see, for the most part, a sturdy, generous-hearted, gentlemanly, though sun-embrowned and rollicking body of young men—respectful to citizens and officers, kind, though sometimes rough to one another, eager for "fun or trouble," which means a campaign anywhere against the Spaniards, and stirred generally by a noble motive that enables them to endure hardships like a good soldier.

If the friends of these boys care to know how their present pastor feels about the whole matter he can put it in one sentence, which he hopes will give assurance to anxious hearts. Well, then, he takes a hopeful view of every situation, he has faith in the better and nobler qualities of human nature, and to these, by one means and another, always makes his appeal. He enjoys camp life, though fully aware of all the evils he has to oppose. He enjoys his pastoral work—call it not work—his friendly comradeship, with the boys. He is hopeful, he is encouraged by results, and always encouraging. He is thankful to Almighty God for the true and generous responses these noble-hearted soldier boys make to the good influences he seeks to bring into their lives. May their loved and loving ones at home write them letters of good cheer and good counsel, and encourage them to be as brave in championing the cross of Christ as they certainly will be in fighting for the flag of their country.

II. OLD VIRGINY.

It is reported in camp that the New Yorkers, the first night after our arrival and encampment near them, slept on their guns, with bayonets ready for defense. They supposed that of course we were cowboys and toughs, coming as we did from the Indian village at the mouth of the Kaw. As a matter of fact, however, the West, in the rural districts especially, is further removed from primitive condition than the East, whether that be New England or Virginia. These Virginia homesteads indeed are old; but they have reverted, as it were, to nature's dominion, and are covered with a second growth of timber and a tangle of blackberry vines. Here and there you will see a little meadow white with daisies and fringed with wild roses, or a cultivated field with potatoes, corn or wheat growing in it; but how different does the yellow, stony soil, and the scanty growth thereon, appear from what one sees in Missouri. And you will see them plowing with a single horse or mule and the old single-shovel plow. Eastern Virginia is like another world to one of us Westerners. To-day a party of us explored the country hereabouts. First we went to an old homestead about two miles south of our camp to see some old Canton chinaware and colonial furniture which I discovered some days ago. It was the possession of the family of Masons—one of the F. F. Vs. They showed us a gold-hilted sword that was used by Gen. John Mason in the war of 1812. They had old mirrors, sideboards and tables; old hand-made blue china, over a century old; candelabra that in their day cost from $50 to $75, and now, by age, are much enhanced in value; a grandfather's clock that stood on the floor and reached the ceiling, and kept time for the first generation of the republic; and old high-post bedsteads, in which the great-grandparents of many a Missouri boy now at Camp Alger, may have slept. A picture of this old homestead would be interesting to Westerners if it could be faithfully rendered. The old, deep-cut, yellow road winds around the north slope of the hill southward of the house a few hundred yards. From this the road leading to the house goes down across a small, sparkling stream well fed by springs which you can see here and there in the green slopes of the hills. The house stands under a deep shade of lofty and wide-spreading chestnuts. It is painted white, of course. All of these Virginia houses are so painted or whitewashed. The outhouses are numerous, and likewise exhibit a liberal use of whitewash and white paint. The spring house—that's never wanting on one of these homesteads—the smoke house, the lumber house—which is usually built of logs and was once doubtless a negro cabin—hen house, barns, etc., all looking clean and bright and beautiful in their green setting.

From the Mason homestead