look in there and you will find some sugar." "Now go round and tell everybody in camp, won't you. Tell 'em all to come and get some sugar. Oh! I know you won't. Oh yes! of course."
Time would fail me to tell of the "lazy man," the "brave man," the "worthless man," the "bully," and the "ingenious man," the "helpless man," the "sensitive man," and the "gentleman," but they are as familiar to the members of the mess as the "honest man," who would not eat stolen pig, but would "take a little of the gravy."
Every soldier remembers, indeed was personally acquainted with, the universal man. How he denied vehemently his own identity, and talked about "poison oak," and heat and itch, and all those things, and strove in the presence of those who knew-how-it-was-themselves to prove his absolute freedom from anything like "universality." Poor fellow, sulphur internally and externally would not do. Alas! his only hope was to acknowledge his unhappy state, and stand, in the presence of his peers, confessed—a lousy man.
The "Boys in Blue" generally preferred to camp in the open fields. The Confed's took to the woods, and so the Confederate camp was not as orderly or as systematically arranged, but the most picturesque of the two. The blazing fire lit up the forms and faces and trees around it with a ruddy glow, but only deepened the gloom of the surrounding woods, so that the soldier pitied the poor fellows away off on guard in the darkness, and hugged himself and felt how good it was to be with the fellows around the fire. How companionable was the blaze and the glow of the coals! They seemed to warm the heart as well as the foot. The imagination seemed to feed on the glowing coals and surrounding gloom, and when the soldier gazed on the fire, peace, liberty, home, strolls in the woods and streets with friends, the church, the school, playmates and sweethearts all passed before him, and even the dead came to mind. Sadly, yet pleasantly, he thought of the loved and lost, and the future loomed up, and the possibility of death and prison and the grief at home would stir his heart, and the tears would fall trickling to the ground. Then was the time to fondle the little gifts from home. Simple things—the little pincushion, the needlecase with thread and buttons, the embroidered tobacco bag, and the knitted gloves. Then the time to gaze on photographs, and to read and re-read the letter telling of the struggles at home and the coming box of good things—butter and bread, and toasted and ground
