ss, as they ought
to do, a prohibitory law on the subject--an assortment of towels,
handkerchiefs, stockings and other articles of apparel which the owners
thereof have lately washed, or have gone through the motions of
washing, and have hung up overhead to dry, where they are forever
flapping in your face when you stand upright in the tent. The blankets
and knapsacks are at night used to eke out the appointments for
sleep,--the first to soften the floor to the bones of the sleepers, the
second to serve for pillows. These, especially the former, are looked
upon by the genuine soldier as effeminate; while the greenhorn bitterly
complains of them as a very satire on helps to sleep.

There are nooks in a tent, as there are in every builded house, that
seem to be just the places for some little oddities of contrivance or
other. But there is one appendage in particular which is quite apt to
possess the mind of the greenhorn. He is early disgusted with the
dirty, grovelling life of your easy-going, shiftless, contented old
campaigner, and inwardly resolves to adopt a genteeler regimen. So he
builds him a cellar for the cool deposit of wines, butter, milk, eggs,
and whatever other delicacy his dainty stomach may require. In the tent
flooring he cuts a trap door admitting to the sacred enclosure. You are
reclining perhaps in your domicile opposite, dreamily coloring your
meerschaum, and watching Mr. Greenhorn. As his work develops itself to
your comprehension you wrinkle your face with mischievous merriment,
wondering whether he does not see, as you do, that there is a laugh to
come in there by and bye. The day passes and time wags merrily on. A
day or two afterward, at a certain "fall in for rations!" you notice in
your enterprising neighbor an unusual nervous restlessness and a
disposition, now for the first time shown, of winking slily at you
without provocation, and chucking you in the ribs. You know at once
that there is something in the wind, and suspect that the aforesaid
laugh is to come in pretty soon. Instinctively connecting his conduct
with that cellar which so much amused you, you are curious enough to
follow up the thread he has unwittingly slipped into your fingers.
Accordingly when he returns to his tent with provender in hand you
watch him closely. He lifts the trap door and draws out a crock of
butter, enough to last the mess a fortnight. With this unctuous gold of
the dairy he overspreads his tough hard tack