It is reported in camp that the New Yorkers, the first night after our arrival and encampment near them, slept on their guns, with bayonets ready for defense. They supposed that of course we were cowboys and toughs, coming as we did from the Indian village at the mouth of the Kaw. As a matter of fact, however, the West, in the rural districts especially, is further removed from primitive condition than the East, whether that be New England or Virginia. These Virginia homesteads indeed are old; but they have reverted, as it were, to nature's dominion, and are covered with a second growth of timber and a tangle of blackberry vines. Here and there you will see a little meadow white with daisies and fringed with wild roses, or a cultivated field with potatoes, corn or wheat growing in it; but how different does the yellow, stony soil, and the scanty growth thereon, appear from what one sees in Missouri. And you will see them plowing with a single horse or mule and the old single-shovel plow. Eastern Virginia is like another world to one of us Westerners. To-day a party of us explored the country hereabouts. First we went to an old homestead about two miles south of our camp to see some old Canton chinaware and colonial furniture which I discovered some days ago. It was the possession of the family of Masons—one of the F. F. Vs. They showed us a gold-hilted sword that was used by Gen. John Mason in the war of 1812. They had old mirrors, sideboards and tables; old hand-made blue china, over a century old; candelabra that in their day cost from $50 to $75, and now, by age, are much enhanced in value; a grandfather's clock that stood on the floor and reached the ceiling, and kept time for the first generation of the republic; and old high-post bedsteads, in which the great-grandparents of many a Missouri boy now at Camp Alger, may have slept. A picture of this old homestead would be interesting to Westerners if it could be faithfully rendered. The old, deep-cut, yellow road winds around the north slope of the hill southward of the house a few hundred yards. From this the road leading to the house goes down across a small, sparkling stream well fed by springs which you can see here and there in the green slopes of the hills. The house stands under a deep shade of lofty and wide-spreading chestnuts. It is painted white, of course. All of these Virginia houses are so painted or whitewashed. The outhouses are numerous, and likewise exhibit a liberal use of whitewash and white paint. The spring house—that's never wanting on one of these homesteads—the smoke house, the lumber house—which is usually built of logs and was once doubtless a negro cabin—hen house, barns, etc., all looking clean and bright and beautiful in their green setting.

From the Mason homestead we went to an old mill which I had found out when some days ago I visited the outposts. The old mill has not ground any corn, I presume, for a generation. Its mossy roof threatens to tumble in; the old wooden water wheel is falling to ruin, its wooden cogs are fast disappearing. It is a century and a half old. The lady in whose family the mill has always been, and who now lives near it, where her parents, grandparents and great-grandparents before her lived, related to us to-day that Washington, when a young man, came along while they were building the stone foundation and said: "Boys, what are you building here? An Indian fort?" When told that it was a mill, he said it would serve them also as a fort and refuge against the Indians. The nails that now but feebly hold the decaying boards to the massive timbers of the frame were hand-made. Visitors esteem these, or a wooden cog, or some other old iron or piece of wood, as a valuable souvenir. The dwelling house of the owner stands on the steep hillside a few steps away. As you climb up to it you pass the whitewashed spring house, the old ash hopper, the old-fashioned bee hives, all in the midst of blossoming shrubbery, and come to a door under the large-timbered but cozy old veranda, and look into a low ceilinged room of which the whitewashed joists are unhewn logs. While we enjoy the fresh milk and strawberry pies they set before us, we use our eyes, looking with delight about us upon the old-time things.

It can rain as hard here as at Jefferson Barracks. The night after our arrival, and before the tents were ditched, it rained cats and dogs. The quarters of several companies were inundated—it was easy to get a bath, plunge or shower. One boy sat in his tent perched up on a box with his shoes by the side of him, while the waters swirled around. A shoe was accidentally knocked off and was being hurried away—he makes a run and a splash for it, and returns successful—to find the box with the other shoe swept away into the darkness. He took it philosophically, telling his friends next day that he "went to sleep in the army and woke in the navy."

To-night we were given a free entertainment in Company G lane. It consisted mostly of dancing. First we had the old Virginia reel, and it was given in grand style. The fiddling brought back the scenes of the country picnic and Fourth of July of our boyhood. There was one musical feature, however, that was new. One of the boys, with a lead pencil in each hand, sat by the fiddler and thumped on the strings and produced all the effects of a banjo perfectly. Then they gave us a cake-walk. There were some half-dozen couples that entered the contest. The ladies wore blue-checked handkerchiefs on their heads and poncho skirts. Do not believe any report saying that the boys of the Third are discontented and unhappy. Go down through the company lanes any evening and see what they are doing. You will see a great many writing, some reading, some playing cards, but most of them will be engaged in some out-door amusement. Their amusements are continually varying. At St. Louis it was "leap-frog;" now it is "tug-of-war." "Cock fighting" and "bull fighting" are also amusements, and are said to be very entertaining. We are invited to see some of this to-morrow evening. Of course, the fighting is all between the boys, and when they represent the chickens—as the thing has been described to me—they are so fixed that they tumble all over themselves at the lightest touch. You will hear a great many funny things said, it doesn't matter what the boys are doing. A circus is not more delightful.

Mascots of every imaginable sort—pigs, chickens, cats, dogs, rabbits, terrapins, goats, small boys—are a special feature of camp life. Odd characters, too, are quite as common. I will tell you of one—a "character"—that belongs to Company E. He must have been picked up, I think, as a sort of mascot. He imitates a pig in all its swinish habits of grunting, squealing, and being unclean.

At Jefferson Barracks a dozen times a day I looked up to see where that pig was. You could not help thinking one was in camp and was very hungry at that. His face, when you saw him, confirmed the deception. A hungry pig following a pail of buttermilk after one taste is not more piggish than this poor boy. On a recent evening, when I was present at a mixed entertainment, consisting of mandolin and guitar music, singing, reciting, etc., "Piggy," as he calls himself, attempted to play his rÔle, coming out and getting down in the center of the circle, but he didn't take. The boys were plainly tired of him and called him down. He strongly suggested the court fool of the middle ages. This is the best that could be said of him, an object of extreme pity. What now, after this boy has so long aspired only to amuse people by playing so abject a rÔle, at which he has learned to succeed so perfectly—what yet are his human possibilities? Well, that night after singing, his captain invited me in to sit with him awhile, and I referred to this boy, whereupon he related this incident of him. He said that a few days before the "pig" had sent for him to come to the guard house, where, for some misdemeanor, he had been incarcerated, and shoot him. The captain found him all broken up—the human was asserting itself in tears—for man is not only the animal that laughs, but the animal that weeps also; and this particular one was proving himself by his tears a man. The boy said: "Captain, I want you to take me out and shoot me. I would rather you would just kill me than to treat me the way you do." The captain was astonished and asked what he meant. He replied: "Why, you didn't speak to me this morning when I spoke; you just ignored me as if I was nobody. I would rather you'd take me out and shoot me." His captain then explained to him that it was an army rule not to speak to any one in disgrace, and so gave the poor boy relief. The human sense of self-respect was not extinct, but when awakened, was even very strong in this deluded, ignorant boy; which is another confirmation of my fundamental doctrine and principal of action. There are two things I have supreme faith in: The first is human nature, and the second is Christ's method of dealing with it. These two faiths must not be separated, if they are to remain true and practicable. Only Christ's way of approaching and appealing to men calls forth the good that is in them. To have faith in Christ, that is, in His way and His doctrine, implies, on the other hand, faith in humanity. Whoever will follow Christ's method and show His spirit, His tact, faith and love will find human nature nine parts good to one part evil and responsive in kind to every appeal. To awaken the good that is in every man, is the true work of salvation, and that is done in but one way—that is Christ's. Lowell expressed it all in these words:

The kind of treatment we receive at the hands of others is, in the main, the reflection of our own deeds and thoughts.