uestions, of occasional teams that we passed, as to the distance to
Cherubusco. "Three miles," and again after an hour "Three miles!" Well,
it was a long hike, nearly two hours, and I am glad to say without halt,
for in that wind we should have frozen. But we began to dry off. At last
the sight of the trucks and the cook-tents cheered us, and we marched
onto the ground where four companies were already finishing their dinner.
We had driven off their enemy, and they had marched straight through.

The ground here holds the tent-pins well; the tent is secure. But I stood
in line for half an hour in the wind, cold and ever colder in my poncho,
while they let us in driblets into a barn and doled us out hay at high
prices. I felt very cross against the good woman at whose table I now
write, for not devising a quicker system--though she suffered from it
too, for her teeth were chattering as she passed me through. But
everything goes by; even while I shivered the wind dried my clothes; and
I had cold feet for only a couple of hours, by which time I had dried out
a pair of fresh stockings, and put them on with my dry boots. Since then
I have been comfortably warm. We had fires, about which we sat; the sun
at last came out (you should have heard the shout at the first thin
rays!) and we have had a wonderful clear orange sunset, with spruces
silhouetted against it, and the early setting of the young moon. Now it
is clear and cold and quiet outside, with the northern lights flashing
and glowing, violet and white, in cloud-like masses or shifting spires.

Well, such was the day, a hard one in many ways. Says a sergeant sitting
by the stove, "I can describe it in two words, Damn nasty." But I am no
more than ordinarily tired, and am dry. The hardships of such a day are
not to be compared with those of the poor devils in the trenches across
the water.

I must close this letter and leave it at the Y. M. C. A., for the call
to quarters has just sounded. In fact it is welcome, for I am very
sleepy. I am leaving my wet shoes here to dry. We have just learned, to
our sorrow, that we work tomorrow--Sunday! But there is one good piece of
news--our overcoats are coming! Much love from

DICK.

PRIVATE GODWIN'S LETTER HOME

Sunday, at Cherubusco, about 8.30 A. M.
Sitting in the sun, in my overcoat, at the tent door.