For a week, in Camp Alger, the boys of the Third have been clearing a forest, digging wells, building kitchen arbors and adobe furnaces, spading and raking about the tents and making themselves beds and other household conveniences out of the materials afforded by the forest primeval. From where I am now sitting, underneath the tall pines, in front of my tent, which a squad are putting in order, you can see a string of boys moving in this way or that, bearing logs from the clearing, or carrying a long pole toward the companies' quarters; while in the valley beyond the tents the Third New York is drilling to the music of bugle and drum, and a forest of oak trees rises beyond. Camp Alger occupies an old Virginia plantation of 1500 acres, about ten miles from Washington. But it is not under garden-like cultivation, as the name and location might suggest. It is a wilderness, with here and there a narrow winding road and a small open field. The various regiments—some twenty odd—are located in this vast, uncared-for estate, just where open space can be found or made. Ours was placed to the west of those already in the ground when we came, and assigned a little field of about 10 acres in extent. The Third New York is encamped along the north side of this field, while we are along the west, and both regiments use it for exercise. The old manor house lies south of us about half a mile. The newer part of the house was built early in this century of brick brought from England, while the older part belongs to the last century, and is built of wood. It is, of course, a historic place, and the lady of the manor told me many interesting things concerning the country around. One of the smooth, sandy roads winding through the estate was made by Washington; another is called "Gallows' Lane," because, during the civil war, so many Union pickets met their fate there at the hands of Col. Mosby's men.

The Third does not have so many visitors at Camp Alger as it had at Jefferson Barracks, and the "producer," that is, the young lady who brings a box of dainties to her soldier laddie, is conspicuously absent. Still, we have not been wholly neglected. Several Missourians living in Washington, among them some congressmen, have visited us. They speak of our regiment in the highest terms of praise, and promise to use their influence to get us early to the front. As for ourselves, having a good opinion of our rank, we expect to be among the first on Cuban soil.

I do not know what impression the newspaper accounts of the Third have made upon your minds, but the impression everywhere made by the boys themselves has been extremely favorable. Every one I talked with in St. Louis, spoke in highest praise of the gentlemanly behavior of the Third—in contrast, I am sorry to say, to some other regiments. And it was so all along our journey eastward. Wherever we stopped any length of time, as at Louisville, Cincinnati and Parkersburg, the papers spoke in the most commendatory terms of our men. We were at Parkersburg nearly a whole day, and "took in" the town. The dailies of that place each gave us a column write-up that made us feel proud of the standard of conduct maintained by our regiment.

If a spectacular, dramatic representation of the Third Regiment in Camp Alger could be put upon the stage it would be more than the success of the season. I suggest this as an opportunity for any Missourian whose aspirations tend toward the dramatic in literature. The writer would have only to be a faithful copyist with enough of the artist's sense and imaginative faculty to select the characteristic and telling features, and present them on a thread of romance. Let me just go about with him a day and show him what he could work into a fine spectacular performance.

First, the general scene shall be a vast wilderness of pines, cedars, oaks and chestnuts, and other forest trees, with a tangled undergrowth of vines, ferns, mosses, blackberry bushes, shrub honeysuckle, laurel and other flowering plants; narrow, sandy roads, worn deep into the red soil by a century of travel, wind through this wilderness; and here and there as they lead, in their windings, over hill and vale, through deep shades, crossing now and then a clear, rippling stream to which thrushes sing and where mosses and ferns cluster thickly to the water's edge, there should appear in the great forest a little open field, whose yellow soil lies broken into furrows only in strips, indicating to what extent farming had been carried when the government laid hold upon the vast old estate for an army camp.

The Third Regiment shall be placed at the western edge of a small field that opens in the midst of a wilderness and slopes gently southward and eastward toward spring-fed streams that are hidden by shrubbery and fringed by many ferns. The time shall be a day in June, and the action shall open with the rising of the sun. From the higher ground, where the staff officers' tents are situated at the extreme west side under the towering oaks and pines, we shall watch the sun appear above the wooded hill to the east and drive away the white mist in the vale below, while the wild birds, the robins and thrushes, are greeting the dawn with happy lays. The mess fires beyond the tents are started, and in the still air of morning their columns of smoke rise and outspread tall and graceful.

Hark! The bugle sounds the first call. How it thrills the very soul and makes you feel all the grand opportunity of the new day, awakening the old hope never dead, and kindling enthusiasm for life's enterprises ever new! Who would not waken to hear it, however sweet his morning slumbers might be to him? waken to hear, though he should turn over upon his canvas cot and float away into dreamland again with the inspiring notes still echoing through his soul. But if he lies awake he will hear from one quarter "Dixie," it may be, played by the band of some other regiment; shortly afterward, "The Star-Spangled Banner" by another, and then the drum corps of our New York neighbors will make sleep utterly impossible. Then follows our full bugle corps, with revÉille proper:

Then the camp is as alive as a swarm of bees, with a similar hum and buzz of mingled noises. A thousand soldiers in a half-hour's time have dressed, performed their simple toilet—a close-shorn head in many instances enabling a towel to render adequate service as comb and brush, and formed into company lines to respond with a lusty "Here!" to the call of their names—soon after to be swinging their guns or clapping their hands in calisthenic drills.

The bugle-call to mess is not so musical, and, put into words, is not so poetical, as some of the others, but it serves the intended purpose. It goes as follows:

After morning mess you may see a variety of scenes characteristic of camp life. You will see a "fatigue" squad lined up before the Sergeant Major's tent to receive orders for duty around headquarters. They will rake the yard and roll up the side-curtains of the tents, clear away some brush, or make some improvement in our sylvan settlement. Here and there in officers' tents you will see the various school assembled—schools for every rank from major of battalion to the non-commissioned officers. And they will study their little blue-backed "Drill Regulations" as diligently as in days gone by they studied their blue-backed spellers.

At 9 o'clock, say, a battalion marches out of camp to take exercise in the field. While it is performing its evolutions you may perhaps see a skirmishing squad break from the edge of the forest somewhere about, and, with a terrifying yell, make a sudden attack upon the enemy. Across that young peach orchard yonder to our south you will see another company advance by repeated short swift runs and sudden stops, falling each time flat upon the ground to fire, thus driving the foe from the field and winning the day against fearful odds. At 11:30, thirsty, perspiring and dust-begrimed, they come hastily into camp, clash their guns down and look for all the world as though they had just come back from the war. They have met the Spaniards in the field and "routed them and scouted them, nor lost a single man."

When distinguished visitors come to our camp our regimental band comes up to do them honor, and they play, as only this band can, to the delight of all who cover the hillslopes of Camp Alger within hearing. "Ben Bolt," "Margery," "The Merry American," "The Stars and Stripes Forever," and other favorites are finely rendered, but most beautiful of all is their hunting song, with its bugle echo and imitation of the chase resounding through the woods:

And then the barking of the dogs and noise of the pursuers and the capture of the quarry.

At 6:30 we have dress parade. Our stage manager may not be able to present this effectively. He would require the services of an entire university corps of students as "supes." The three battalions of four companies each, preceded by the band and bugle corps, march, after some field movements, before the mounted staff. This is the most imposing warlike spectacle to be exhibited.

After this the boys are free. Soon their tents, viewed from headquarters, will present a diversified and interesting scene. Three hundred white canvas houses, dimly lit within by tallow candles, the mess fires glowing underneath their arbors beyond, white-aproned cooks moving about them, and everywhere groups of boys engaged in all manner of amusement in the several company lanes—this is the picture—a sort of Midway Plaisance.

We shall place some of these scenes before you upon the stage. There will be no order or formality, but a jolly, free-for-all. Everybody knows, however, who can entertain and what everybody can do, though the amount and variety of artistic talent among these thousand boys is something surprising. We shall first have a mandolin and guitar duet, and this will bring a small group together. B—— B—— will then be called for, and he will increase the crowd. Taking the guitar in hand he will sing some comic darky songs in his inimitable way. "The Warmest Baby in the Bunch" will be called for, then a half dozen others all at once. The medley of titles of popular songs will take the crowd best. C—— will then do some whistling. You will think a mocking bird is in camp. Such chirping, warbling and piping you will say you never heard, except, possibly, from thrushes, robins and mocking birds. Then D—— will be called for. D—— is an Irishman, a true son of Erin. He has been with Barnum as a clown, and now has chosen the army for its freer life. D—— is a splendid fellow. I count him as one of my best friends. Our acquaintance came about in this way:

One evening at Jefferson Barracks, before many of the boys in his company came to recognize me, dressed as I was in citizen's clothes, I joined a promiscuous crowd in their lane where they were having an impromptu entertainment. "The Girl I Left Behind Me," "The Old Oaken Bucket," and other songs that appeal tenderly to the universal heart, had been sung, and that, too, remarkably well. D—— was called for. He placed one foot upon a pine box lying in the center of the circle and started out upon a song that for its pathos touched each heart. In fact, D—— was in a pathetic way that evening. What was our astonishment and chagrin when D—— turned about fierce as a jungle cat, and began swearing like a mule driver. What had happened to evoke such wrath and malediction? A half mile away some boys were greeting the 4th, just then arriving, with vociferous cheering; near by some boys of a neighboring company were thrumming quietly upon a guitar and a mandolin. D—— explained, mainly in words which not even Kipling was ever realistic enough to string together, that he never could begin doing anything without those "curs" in the neighboring company starting up some noise. D—— was not in the rest of the evening's performance. No amount of persuasion could induce him to proceed. D—— was really not in a happy mood. And though you could not consider his resentment as at all just, anybody would have sympathized with him and have tried to reason away his delusion. But in vain. A few days after I saw D—— by daylight; he recognized me and we had a pleasant little chat. He was all right. Again I saw him, and he had a patch on his face. The "farm house," just outside the reservation, had got the best of D——. Still he and the chaplain are good friends, for D—— has a good heart.

So D—— comes upon the stage and sings, making some fine local hits. Now his song will make you weep, because you can't laugh any more, then another will make you cry for the world of pathos in it, and, as you must think, in his heart, too. If you have a heart yourself to appreciate and sympathize with every brother man you will feel, deep down in it like saying, "God bless you, D——, and give you joy."

Then H——, tall, gaunt, sallow and dry, will recite "St. Peter at the Gate;" S—— will render "The Picture on the Barroom Floor;" N—— will perform on the flute; a half-dozen couples will give a cake-walk, the ladies being distinguished by a handkerchief tied over the head and a poncho around the waist, and better walking you must admit you never saw. Then regretfully we hear the bugle sound tattoo; in fifteen minutes "quarters" will sound, and, in yet another quarter of an hour, "taps."

Some sacred songs are now called for. The chaplain has been present at all the performance, and his interest and delight have been unfeigned. It may be some boy has let slip a word he wouldn't have spoken if the light had been bright, revealing the chaplain.

It may be a hot drop of tallow has fallen upon the hand of some fellow and burnt it while he was intently listening to a song; then he may have spoken hastily. He afterward comes and asks the chaplain's pardon. The whole affair—the various performances and the conduct of the boys, courteous, free and jolly, has been gratifying to the chaplain, and he tells them so, adding a word of encouragement and of counsel. All the boys now want to sing the favorite song of the camp. We, perhaps, have sung "Rock of Ages," "Yield Not to Temptation," and other old familiar hymns, for they like these best. But now they want to sing, "Nearer My God to Thee," which, because it is best of all, we have put off to the last. Then, with a brief prayer, it may be, for God's blessing upon the soldier boys, and for His protection and guidance, the chaplain dismisses them, while, with heads bowed in reverence, under the stars, heaven's solemn peace seems to have descended upon them.

Then the most beautiful of all the bugle calls sounds out into the stillness of the night. It is "taps." How melodiously it invites to sweet and peaceful rest. The words but feebly suggest the mellow notes of the bugle:

Many things that would be interesting features in a spectacular performance would have to be left out, I fear. You could not, for example, present upon the stage our last Sunday morning's 8 o'clock service. But what pertaining to the whole camp could be more important from any point of view? The marching of the company squads in almost full, though voluntary attendance, to the grove, and taking an easy position on the grass about the improvised pulpit beneath the tall forest trees, the inspiring music, the respectful, unbroken and solemn attention given to the sermon, the profound impression, deepened by the response given by some who came forward to witness before all to their acceptance of the Savior Christ and their purpose to follow Him, then the evening service of song, at which still others, with the like courageous and noble decision make choice of the true way of life—this, taken along with the fact that the boys of this regiment are manly, high-spirited and well-behaved, would be impressive, though only suggested by words.

A true presentation of the Third would, I think, give assurance to many a mother, sister and sweetheart, anxious and prayerful for the welfare of her soldier boy. She would see, for the most part, a sturdy, generous-hearted, gentlemanly, though sun-embrowned and rollicking body of young men—respectful to citizens and officers, kind, though sometimes rough to one another, eager for "fun or trouble," which means a campaign anywhere against the Spaniards, and stirred generally by a noble motive that enables them to endure hardships like a good soldier.

If the friends of these boys care to know how their present pastor feels about the whole matter he can put it in one sentence, which he hopes will give assurance to anxious hearts. Well, then, he takes a hopeful view of every situation, he has faith in the better and nobler qualities of human nature, and to these, by one means and another, always makes his appeal. He enjoys camp life, though fully aware of all the evils he has to oppose. He enjoys his pastoral work—call it not work—his friendly comradeship, with the boys. He is hopeful, he is encouraged by results, and always encouraging. He is thankful to Almighty God for the true and generous responses these noble-hearted soldier boys make to the good influences he seeks to bring into their lives. May their loved and loving ones at home write them letters of good cheer and good counsel, and encourage them to be as brave in championing the cross of Christ as they certainly will be in fighting for the flag of their country.