Last Saturday I received an interesting packet of letters from someone in St. Louis, who signed herself simply "R. S. M." The idea was so unique and feminine, and the letters gave so much amusement to the boys that I will tell you something about it. There were ten sealed envelopes in the packet accompanied by a note to myself, explaining the object to be to give a little amusement to the boys, and to help fill up a few minutes with "something unusual." Each letter bore a different address, some common name being selected, such as "Mr. Smith," "Mr. Jones," and so on. The inscriptions on the backs of the envelopes were the interesting exterior feature. One was addressed in this manner:

"When this you see, remember me."

"A valentine for a dyspeptic member of Company C."

Then on the back was the following:

Another was addressed, "For a good boy who may open this July 26, '98." On the back of this was written:

"From Illinois and California—A spray of the giant redwood tree, and a spray of the old fashioned 'yarb' our grandmothers used."

Another said on the back: "Just to let you know that some one thinks of the Missouri boys and wants to help them pass a minute away opening a curious envelope."

So they ran. The merriment occasioned by the distribution of these envelopes, as that addressed "to one who feels himself to be very young," was delivered to a bald-headed fellow, and the one addressed "to a good child," was delivered to one whom common acclamation pronounced to be worse than Peck's Bad Boy, would have gratified the sender with a vision such as she could hardly have expected.

A rhyme contained in the one addressed "to a dyspeptic," ran as follows:

Thanks to this thoughtful, gracious lady! She may never know how much good her little plan for cheering the boys has done and will do. She may remain hidden under the initials "R. S. M." But be sure such kind hearts and ingenious hands as hers make this old world brighter and better to live in. It is such little, delicate, thoughtful, feminine acts that bless our lives and do more good ofttimes than books and sermons.

The United Daughters of the Confederacy of St. Louis, the same day, sent us three dozen night shirts for our boys in the hospital. This was a most useful gift and amply supplies our regiment in this respect. We are awaiting with delight the fulfillment of their promise, made through their secretary, Mrs. W. P. Howard, to send us one hundred "sewing kits." These are not the first gifts to prove their patriotism and womanly sympathy for the soldier boys these Daughters of the Confederacy have sent us. Their ministration to the needs of the regiment began at Jefferson Barracks and has continued, with larger promises of future help.

The Soldiers' Relief Society of Kansas City, of which Mrs. A. W. Childs is president, has also sent many boxes of useful articles to be distributed to the soldiers. I was enabled this afternoon, by the provision of this society, to answer the call of the hospital steward for sheets by taking them two dozen white, clean ones, that surely will make the cot of pain more tolerable. At first, during even those days of extreme heat, you might have seen many a sick fellow lying in the hospital in his blue flannel field shirt. Now all is white and delightful to see, relieving the eye that must needs look upon suffering.

A few evenings ago, as I stood in front of headquarters with a reverend old gentleman, who had served as chaplain in the Civil War, watching together and commenting upon the varied scene before us, the galloping orderlies as they bore messages this way and that; the jolting heavy lumber wagons, drawn each by four mules, hauling rations for the regiments; the manifold activities of the soldiers, some carrying water in their large black buckets from the deep and excellent well the government bored for us; some with large boxes of rubbish which they were bearing, each box on two poles, toward the dumps; a crowd reading, writing and playing games in the Y. M. C. A. tent, while a half dozen boys on one side, among the logs under the great chestnut trees, were pitching rubber rings at pegs in an inclined board, and a like number on the other side were engaged in the old-fashioned farmers' Sunday game of pitching horseshoes, and the band, down in the little plain beyond the tents, was playing its beautiful strains while the guard was being mounted; there passed across this scene of many activities, an object frequently enough seen here, but never seen without its painful suggestiveness—it was the ambulance with the Red Cross upon its ground of blue. And the man of many years and large experience made a remark I shall not forget. "The Red Cross," said he, "is the sign of the highest outcome of our civilization. We had no such society as this in the Civil War. We had no such hospital system as you have. There is nothing, I repeat, that better represents the spirit of Christian civilization than the Red Cross."

While, therefore, as the vehicle thus marked rolled hastily by, giving its momentary pang of sympathy for some hurt or stricken comrade, its triumphant suggestion was of the mission of mercy unexampled in ages past, so supremely Christ-like.

That night, in one of the hospital tents, we sat by the bedside of his dying son. Through the long, slow hours, he upon one side and I upon the other, we watched the heaving breast of pain and the suffering face, and inquired of each other by looks, in the dim light, if there was yet hope for the strong, young soldier to win the battle he was contending in so bravely.

In the still evening air, from twenty hillsides, the mellow notes of the bugle bade good-night and peaceful sleep to the weary soldiers—and we thought eternal rest to the soul of the one we were so anxiously watching. Slowly the stars, however, went round in their courses and looked down—how calm and distant and seemingly all indifferent, upon the bowed head of the aged father as, toward morning, I could hear his regular, though feeble tread up and down outside. And then, as the bright sun rose, and the smoke from the campfires drifted off down the vales, making such a scene of idyllic beauty; then all the hills and valleys echoed with the sound of revÉille calling to action, awakening to new hope and the new day's new opportunities. But not for one soldier was all this—his pulse of life beat too low. Till noon he lingered on wrestling with the last enemy, and, as the sun began to slope toward the west, his light on earth went out. In the prime of his years, one of the strongest among his comrades, after ten days of suffering, he passed away—Corporal John B. McNair, a soldier of his country, whose courage was shown not upon the field of carnage where the trumpet and flag inspire on to the deadly charge and heroic deed, but only in a battle where he fought alone, with nothing to inspire, nothing but now and then the kind look or word of comrades to cheer. But he died his country's defender in the cause of humanity. His will be a soldier's reward in heaven. It was last Saturday that, near the great and renowned, we laid him to rest in the beautiful grounds of Arlington.

Sunday morning, the 24th of July, after the regular preaching service, Company D, with a considerable number from other companies, met in the Y. M. C. A. tent to hold memorial services for Richard Maloy, who died two days before at Fort Myer, from where his remains were sent home for burial. Circumstances made the services nobly impressive. When the president's call for troops was first made, Richard and his brother Charles were at home with their widowed mother in Kansas City. Dick—so was he called by his friends—Dick said to his mother, "Mother, I will go." She replied, "One cannot go, my son, without the other." "Then," said Charles, the younger of the two, "I will go also." So they joined the Third Regiment and went out with their mother's blessing upon them. The rigor of army duty was too severe for their immature bodies. One day Charles, just after the return from the hard practice march, was assigned to outpost duty. Dick said his brother couldn't stand it, and applied to the sergeant to be put on in his place. The substitution was made. It killed Dick.

At the conclusion of the memorial, one of his comrades came to me with an open Testament in his hand, and, with breast choked with emotion, pointed with his finger to the passage: "Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends." That was enough; it told everything.

As for the mother, some said the sudden news would kill her. It did not. When her boys left home for the war it was then that she made her sacrifice and proved her high-minded maternity that could let the larger love of country and of mankind rise superior to the love of her own flesh and blood. She keeps up the traditions of antiquity. Sparta had not nobler women. Such mothers, who bless their parting sons and bid them go, can receive them, living or dead, comforted and exalted with pride that they were stirred by noble impulses and offered their lives in the cause of humanity. We never know the celestial quantities our every-day earth-born acquaintances possess until the hour of supreme need comes to evoke them.

The problem of taking care of an army's sick is indeed no easy one. Our army is still experimenting, or rather, it might be said, improving its system with some phases of the matter yet under discussion. The regimental hospital has been done away with, so that what was the hospital of the regiment is now only a medical dispensary. Here, in response to the sick call at 6:15 every morning, you may see a crowd of soldiers, from 50 to 100 in number, lined up waiting to receive in turn their capsules and pills. Two long pine trees in front of our dispensary furnish acceptable seats to the weakened boys. In addition to medicines there is little else left of all the complete and excellent equipment the Third started out with, except a half-dozen or so litters, which are used for taking up the sick out of their tents or carrying them off the field to the dispensary until the ambulances can carry them to the division hospital. There never having been any brigade hospitals, there are in Camp Alger only division hospitals—first, second and third.

The Second Division hospital, where, as we belong to this division, our sick are cared for, is organized with thorough system. In general command there is some one of the regimental chief surgeons or brigade surgeons. Then there is a full corps of officers with various ranks and duties. There is a property officer with the rank of lieutenant, and so they run. The chief steward has under him four other stewards and about 220 nurses, there being 24 nurses from each regiment permanently detailed to this service. They are organized with captain, lieutenants, and sergeants, very much like a company, and have regular litter drills daily. There are three general wards, each making a white canvas hall-like chamber nearly 50 paces in length, and three special wards, of which one is for measles and another for critical ailments, and another for surgical cases. In a very serious case, two special nurses are called in and assigned wholly to its care.

The whole number of inmates from the nine regiments constituting our division—that is, about 11,700 men—has run on a daily average from 60 to 80. The more critical cases, where it is practicable or advisable, are removed to the Fort Myer hospital by the side of Arlington. The hospital, situated centrally with reference to the various regiments to which it belongs, now constitutes, with its numerous wards, its various officers' quarters, its kitchen and mess tents, and the large number of tents necessary for the nurses and stewards, a little camp all by itself. Around it its own guards keep up their regular tread, and down toward the general corral, where scores of government wagons and government mules stand at feeding time, stand the dozen covered ambulances that go night and day on their faithful missions.

On Monday, of this week, the Third underwent inspection by the general inspection officer, Major Brown, of the Fourth Cavalry. Every man in the regiment, and all the quarters and accoutrements, came under the trained and uncompromising eye. At 8 a.m. the several companies were called in battalions to the parade ground, where the soldiers, each with his usual equipment of gun, knapsack, haversack, field-tent, and canteen, stood under the already hot sun to be examined. Then, after disburdening themselves, they were called out again to execute the movements which the inspector might require of them. Some phase of the inspection continued until late in the afternoon, when, beginning at 6 o'clock, the entire regiment passed in review before General Davis, division commander, and his staff. The fine showing we made elicited round after round of cheering from our New York neighbors, and, at the conclusion, high commendation from the reviewing general.

I will conclude with the presentation of another character. I had frequently heard of J——, of Company K, and desired to make his acquaintance. I was sitting on the band seats by our tall flagless flagpole, watching the effects of the sunrise and of the first bugle calls. I noticed some one advancing toward me from the direction of Company K, at the extreme north side of the camp. It might have been seen that, as he came on with grave and measured tread, the eyes of all his comrades were upon him. But it was equally apparent that he for his part disregarded everything. He came up, but spoke not a word and seemed to be aware of no presence or beholding eye. Then he gravely unrolled a cambric flag of the enormous and graceful proportions of 8 inches long by 12 inches broad, and, attaching it to the rope, hoisted it to the top of the pole, while his comrades loudly cheered and laughed at the joke—to all of which he was utterly oblivious—returning with as much gravity as he came. And the toy flag there floated where he raised it aloft, "frenetic," as Browning says, "to be free." This fellow's large-featured, benignant, Scottish face, with its fringe of hair entirely encircling it, spoke full plainly of a big, jolly, generous heart. The boys all call him "Honest Bill." The day we were going out on our practice march J—— thought he didn't want to go. In fact, he preferred to stay in the guard house. This was his scheme: He goes down to the line of guards, is challenged, makes a dash through, but returns and gives himself up. Quite successful! His large kindly face beams happiness. What does his captain do? Nothing but send him along on the march with the penalty of some days in the guard house hanging over his devoted head. This was enough to try any flesh and blood, and almost enough to provoke even a soldier to swear at his ill luck. I think J—— triumphantly resisted the evil one. When he returned to camp on the third day, a wiser and seemingly no less happy man, he threw down from his strong back not only his own burden of soldierly equipment, but the packs of two of his comrades also who had grown faint in the long march.

So I know J——. Who, from this, doesn't know J——? His heart, sure, is as big as his back is broad, and his nature as open as his face, which shines like a harvest moon. God bless all such comrades.