have
to get up when they sound the revel-lee. The buglers kin jest bust
theirselves a-blowin' fer all I keer!"

In this way the soldiers spent the remainder of the night. Before
daybreak the blast of a hundred bugles rang out, but there was little
need for the reveille.

Breakfast was soon over, and in the gray dawn of that murky morning
the long column went trailing on its way. The weather gave promise of
a sloppy day, and the indications were fully verified. A drizzling
rain set in, and continued without cessation. The boys put their heads
through the holes in their ponchos, from the corners of which the water
streamed. With their muskets at a "secure" they sloshed along through
the mud, hour after hour. In spite of their "gums" the water found its
way in at the back of the neck and trickled down their bodies. Their
clothes became saturated, and they were altogether about as miserable as
it is possible for mortals to be.

[Illustration: A FIELD SHANTY 117 ]

It seemed to Si that the maximum of discomfort had been reached. He had
experienced one thing after another during the few weeks since he left
home, and he thought each in turn was worse than the last, and about as
bad as it could be. But Si learned a good deal more before he graduated.
All through the long, dreary day the soldiers plodded on. There was
little comfort to be derived from the "rest," for the ground was soaked
with water.

"Why didn't we think of it, Shorty," said Si, "'n' make it part o'
the bargain' when we 'listed that we were to have umbrellers. These gum
things don't amount to shucks, nohow, to keep the rain off. I sh'd think
Uncle Sam might do that much for us!"

"I reckon our clothes 'll be purty well washed by the time we git out o'
this mess," said Shorty.

"Feels that way," said Si; "but how about the bilin'? A cold bath jest
refreshes them pesky little varmints, 'n' makes 'em livelier 'n ever.
Say, Shorty, ye didn't write home anything 'bout our havin' graybacks,
did ye?"

"No, not yet; but I was thinkin' I'd tell 'em 'bout it one o' these
days."

"Well, Shorty, I ain't going to tell my folks; it 'd jest make my mother
feel awful to know I was that way. And sister Maria, and--"

Si was thinking aloud, and was going to say "Annabel," but he checked
himself. That name was not to be mentioned in other ears. But he was
afraid she would go back on him if she knew, all about it.

It was nearly night when the 200th Ind., dripping a