hat his sister gave him. This was stocked with postage
stamps and writing materials, including an assortment of the envelopes
of the period, bearing in gaudy colors National emblems, stirring
legends, and harrowing scenes of slaughter, all intended to stimulate
the patriotic impulses and make the breast of the soldier a very volcano
of martial ardor.

When Si got out his nice portfolio he found it to be an utter wreck. It
had been jammed into a shapeless mass, and, besides this, it had been
soaked with rain; paper and envelopes were a pulpy ruin, and the postage
stamps were stuck around here and there in the chaos. It was plain that
this memento of home had fallen an early victim to the hardships of
campaign life, and that its days of usefulness were over.

"It's no use; 'tain't any good," said Si sorrowfully, as he tossed the
debris into the fire, after vainly endeavoring to save from the wreck
enough to carry, out his epistolary scheme.

Then he went to the sutler--or "skinner," as he was better known--and
paid 10 cents for a sheet of paper and an envelope, on which were the
cheerful words, "It is sweet to die for one's country!" and 10 cents
more for a 3-cent postage stamp. He borrowed a leadpencil, hunted up a
piece of crackerbox, and sat down to his work by the flickering light of
the fire. Si wrote:

"Deer Annie."

There he stopped, and while he was scratching his head and thinking
what he would say next the Orderly came around detailing guards for the
night, and directed Klegg to get his traps and report at once for duty.

[Illustration: SI WRITES TO "DEER ANNIE." 085 ]

"It hain't my turn," said Si. "There's Bill Brown, and Jake Schneider,
and Pat Dooley, and a dozen more--I've been since they have!"

But the Orderly did not even deign to reply. Si remembered the
guard-house, and his shoulder still ached from the rail he had carried
that evening; so he quietly folded up his paper and took his place with
the detail.

The next morning the army moved early, and Si had no chance to resume
his letter. As soon as the regiment halted, after an 18-mile march,
he tackled it again. This time nothing better offered in the way of a
writing-desk than a tin plate, which he placed face downward upon his
knee. Thus provided, Si plunged briskly into the job before him, with
the following result:

"I now take my pen in hand to let you know that I am well, except the
doggoned blisters on my feet, and I hope these few l