OVER the roadway leading from hospital to camp, I have doubtless traveled many miles. The large space was thickly dotted with white tents, temporary homes of the brave defenders of our country. Here I became familiar with martial music. I returned with “taps” and arose with “revielle,” and to this day the sound of fife and drum stirs every drop of patriotic blood in my veins and takes me back to the days of camp life at Corinth.

Here we met brave, grand Mother Bickerdyke, who was such a tower of strength to her “boys,” and indeed, to all who came in touch with her. She had a large tent in the midst of the encampment, where she prepared nourishing food and dispensed hospital stores. When she learned our situation, that my mother prepared food with but a few poor cooking utensils, for ourselves, a nurse and the officers in our room, she immediately invited us to come to her tent for all the cooked food we needed. It fell upon me for the most part to carry it, not only for ourselves, but for some of the other inmates of the hospital. I made countless trips up and down the long, winding stairway, and many nights I could not sleep for tired and aching limbs, but I made no complaint. I was keeping my promise of being useful and was serving my country. My mother, however, saw that it was too much for me, and called a halt on it to some extent. We had a nurse, an artilleryman, whose name was Cole, but unlike “Old King Cole,” he was not a “jolly old soul.” He growled and grumbled constantly, and in these days we would call him a “kicker.” One day I started from the tent with more than I could carry, a glass of cherry preserves fell, the glass was broken and contents spilled. The next day, Cole was sent with me to assist in carrying our dinner. As we passed the cherries still lying in the dust, Cole growled out, “Just look at them good cherries; you ought to be made get down and lick ’em up.” I regretted the loss of the cherries as much as Cole, but I did not feel called upon to “get down and lick ’em up.” Cole meant well, however, and was a brave soldier, and if living I would like to know where he is today, for we took many walks together, from Mother B.’s tent up to the big brick house.

Mother B. had an assistant, whose name was Frank Williams, from St. Paul, Minn. He had been sick, and not being able for field service, was detailed for hospital duty. He and I were great friends, and he often came to our room and talked with my parents. He was a Christian, and sometimes had prayers in our room. One day I entered the tent, when to my dismay I found it full of men, and a prayer meeting in progress. I was about to beat a hasty retreat, when my friend Frank very kindly invited me to come in, found a seat for me, and put in my hands a little leaflet bearing upon its white surface the hymn beginning, “Just as I am, without one plea.” A chaplain conducted the services; my friend and some of the other soldiers offered prayer. I was the only child present. I have no recollection of any woman being there, although Mother B. or one of the lady nurses may have been. That prayer meeting was indelibly impressed upon my childish mind, and even now stands out clear cut and in bold relief, over every other prayer meeting I have ever attended. And, let me be where I may when “Just as I Am” is sung, the mingled joys and sorrows of the long years vanish as it were, and again I am a little child in that prayer tent on a Southern battle-field, and again I hear those bearded men singing as with one voice: