ave as yet been able
to get no straw, for though I have twice hurried at the first glimpse of
a wagon, the fellows nearer got it all. The ground is wet from this
morning's rain, my pen has splashed everything with ink, and I am afraid
that this rain is no mere shower. But thank Heaven! the soil is better
for the pins to hold in, the tents have all been faced away from the
wind, we have had a most interesting morning, and I have a full stomach.
To resume my story:

Considerably below the crest of the hill, and perhaps seventy feet uphill
from a railway cutting, a line was marked, and the men fell to at the
digging with enthusiasm. The ground was sandy, and we quickly threw out
the soil, and heaved out the occasional big rocks. "We" scarcely includes
poor Corder, who complained bitterly that his appearance of age made the
fellows keep the tools from him; but when we were ordered to bring stones
and turf, he joyfully carried burdens. The trench was dug about four feet
deep, with an eighteen inch parapet outside. Inside this was a shelf for
an elbow rest; the parapet was lined (revetted, the captain said) with
flat stones, and finally the whole outside was turfed, so that the raw
earth did not show. The turf was from ground opened in a long line higher
up the hill, and left open to look like a trench and draw the enemy's
fire. Our trench being finished, another--a mere rifle pit, higher up the
slope--was made for the captain's observation post, and still another for
a northerly outpost. Having turfed the outside of these, we picked the
milkweed stalks that stood in great numbers, and set them at proper
intervals with artistic irregularity, while for the captain was provided
a little bush. I company's trenches were further to the south.

We were finishing, and Corder had just said "We need a shower to clean
this dirty turf," when the shower came. The captain ordered us into our
packs and ponchos, and then into the trench. Though the shower was short
the wind was increasingly cold, and I was glad of the protection of my
poncho. For in that trench we remained for an hour and three quarters,
before anything really happened.

I had time to study a good many things. The depth to which grass roots
will go in sandy soil: at least two feet. The amount of sand that gets
into the lock of one's rifle. The continual discomfort of sand blowing
into one's eyes. The cold that strikes up through the stone, or the sand,
on which one sits.