ller
affair of the skillet order, in which Bill would set to cooking a corn
meal cake. At the right stage of the proceedings he would slice up some
yams, and put them in with the mutton. Next, and last, he would make at
least a quart of strong, black coffee. Both from long experience and
critical observation, Bill knew to the fraction of a minute how long it
would take for all his converging columns of table comforts to reach
the done point on time and all together, and the resulting harmony was
perfection itself, and (to use an overworked phrase) "left nothing to
be desired." Dinner now being ready, the first thing Bill did was to
bring me an ample allowance of the entire bill of fare, and which, by
the way, I had to dispose of as best I could lying down, as it was
impossible for me to sit up. Having seen to the needs of a disabled
comrade, Bill next proceeded to clear his own decks for action. He
seated himself at the foot of a big tree, on the shady side, with his
back against the trunk; then spreading his legs apart in the shape of a
pair of carpenter's compasses, he placed between them the oven
containing the mutton and yams, at his left hand the skillet with the
cornbread, and on his right his can of coffee--and then the services
began. And how Bill would enjoy his dinner! There was no indecent haste
about it, no bolting of the delicacies, or anything of the sort. He
proceeded slowly and with dignity, while occasionally he would survey
the landscape with a placid, contented air. But everything was
devoured,--the last crumb of cornbread did duty in sopping up the final
drop of grease. The banquet over, Bill would sit there a while in
silence, gazing, perchance, at the shimmering waters of the Arkansas,
and its sandbars, glittering in the sun. But ere long his head would
begin to droop, he would throw one leg over the Dutch oven, swinging
the limb clear of that utensil, settle himself snugly against the tree,
and in about five minutes would be asleep.

At the time I am now writing, (October, 1916,) Bill is yet alive, and
residing at Grafton, Illinois. He is a good old fellow, and "long may
he wave."

CHAPTER XIII.

LITTLE ROCK, OCTOBER, 1863. GRANTED A FURLOUGH. CHAPLAIN B. B.
HAMILTON. THE JOURNEY ON FURLOUGH FROM LITTLE ROCK TO JERSEY COUNTY,
ILLINOIS. RETURN TO REGIMENT, NOVEMBER, 1863.

About the middle of October the regiment shifted its camp ground from
Huntersville to an open space on the west si