as no fire in a
mile of the camp, that fellow could start one. Some men might get down
on hands and knees, and blow it and fan it, rear and charge, and fume
and fret, and yet "she wouldn't burn." But this fellow would come, kick
it all around, scatter it, rake it together again, shake it up a little,
and oh, _how it burned_! The little flames would bite the twigs and snap
at the branches, embrace the logs, and leap and dance and laugh, at the
touch of the master's hand, and soon lay at his feet a bed of glowing
coals.

As soon as the fire is kindled all hands want water. Who can find it?
Where is it? Never mind; we have a man who knows where to go. He says,
"Where's our bucket?" and then we hear the rattle of the old tin cup as
it drops to the bottom of it, and away he goes, nobody knows where. But
_he_ knows, and he doesn't stop to think, but without the slightest
hesitation or doubt strikes out in the darkness. From the camp-fire as a
centre, draw 500 radii, and start an ordinary man on any of them, and
let him walk a mile on each, and he will miss the water. But that fellow
in the mess with the water instinct never failed. He would go as
straight for the spring, or well, or creek, or river, as though he had
lived in that immediate neighborhood all his life and never got water
anywhere else. What a valuable man he was! A modest fellow, who never
knew his own greatness. But others remember and honor him. May he never
want for any good thing!

Having a roaring fire and a bucket of good water, we settle down. A man
cannot be comfortable "_anywhere_;" so each man and his "chum" picks out
a tree, and that particular tree becomes the homestead of the two. They
hang their canteens on it, lay their haversacks and spread their
blankets at the foot of it, and sit down and lean their weary backs
against it, and feel that they are at home. How gloomy the woods are
beyond the glow of our fire! How cozy and comfortable we are who stand
around it and inhale the aroma of the coffee-boiler and skillet!

The man squatting by the fire is a person of importance. He doesn't
talk, not he; his whole mind is concentrated on that skillet. He is our
cook,--volunteer, natural and talented cook. Not in a vulgar sense. He
doesn't mix, but simply bakes, the biscuit. Every faculty, all the
energy, of the man is employed in that great work. Don't suggest
anything to him if you value his friendship. Don't attempt to put on or
take off from the top