ith every other young man who enlisted to defend the
glorious Stars and Stripes, Si Klegg, of the 200th Ind., had a profound
superstition concerning the bayonet. All the war literature he had
ever read abounded in bloodcurdling descriptions of bayonet charges and
hand-to-hand conflicts, in which bayonets were repeatedly thrust up to
the shanks in the combatants' bodies just as he had put a pitch-fork
into a bundle of hay. He had seen pictures of English regiments
bristling with bayonets like a porcupine with quills, rushing toward
French regiments which looked as prickly as a chestnut-bur, and in his
ignorance he supposed that was the way fighting was done. Occasionally
he would have qualms at the thought of how little his system was suited
to have cold steel thrust through it promiscuous-like, but he comforted
himself with the supposition that he would probably get used to it in
time--"soldiers get used to almost anything, you know."

When the 200th Ind. drew its guns at Indianapolis he examined all the
strange accouterments with interest, but gave most to the triangular bit
of steel which writers who have never seen a battle make so important a
weapon in deciding contests.

It had milk, molasses, or even applejack, for Si then was not a member
of the Independent Order of Good Templars, of which society he is now an
honored officer. Nothing could be nicer, when he was on picket, to bring
buttermilk in from the neighboring farm-house to his chum Shorty, who
stood post while he was gone.

[Illustration: SI's CHUM, "SHORTY" ELLIOTT 026 ]

Later in the service Si learned the inestimable value of coffee to
the soldier on the march. Then he stript the cloth from his canteen,
fastened the strand with bits of wire and made a fine coffee-pot of
it. In the morning he would half fill it with the splendid coffee ihe
Government furnished, fill it up with water and hang it from a bush
or a stake over the fire, while he went ahead with his other culinary
preparations. By the time these were finished he would have at least a
quart of magnificent coffee that the cook of the Fifth Avenue could
not surpass, and which would last him until the regiment halted in the
afternoon.

The bully of the 200th took it into his thick head one day to try to
"run over" Si. The latter had just filled his canteen, and the bully
found that the momentum of three pints of water swung at arm's length
by an angry boy was about equal to a mule's kick.