Drawing my box up close to the fire, I sat down, Tempe, in the mean while, stirring the coals and arranging the burning ends of the pine in true country style.

Presently my supper was brought in,—­corn-bread, cornmeal coffee, a piece of musty fried salt meat, heavy brown sugar, and no milk.  I was, however, hungry, and ate with a relish.  Tempe went off to some region unknown for the supper, returning unsatisfied and highly disgusted with the “hog-wittles” which had been offered to her.  Soon Dr. Beatty called, bringing with him Mrs. Dr. ——­, a cheery little body, who, with her husband, occupied a room under the same roof as myself, a sort of hall open at both ends dividing us.

We had some conversation regarding the number of sick and the provisions for their comfort.  On the whole, the evening passed more cheerfully than I had expected.  My sleep that night was dreamless.  I did not even feel the cold, although Tempe declared she was “dun froze stiff.”

Very early I was astir, gazing from the door of my cabin at my new sphere of labor.

Snow had fallen during the night, and still came down steadily.  The path was hidden, the camp-fires appeared as through a mist.  A confused, steady sound of chopping echoed through the woods.  I heard mysterious words, dimly saw figures moving about the fires.  Everything looked unpromising,—­dismal.  Chilled to the heart, I turned back to my only comfort, the splendid fire Tempe had built.  My breakfast was exactly as supper had been, and was brought by the cook, a detailed soldier, who looked as if he ought to have been at the front.  He apologized for the scanty rations, promising some beef for dinner.

Soon Dr. Beatty, accompanied by two assistant-surgeons, appeared to escort me to the tents.  I went gladly, for I was anxious to begin my work.  What I saw during that hour of inspection convinced me, not only that my services were needed, but that my work must be begun and carried on under almost insurmountable difficulties and disadvantages.  I found no comforts, no hospital stores, insufficient nourishment, a scarcity of blankets and comforts, even of pillows.  Of the small number of the latter few had cases; all were soiled.  The sick men had spit over them and the bedclothes, which could not be changed because there were no more.  As I have said, there were no comforts.  The patients looked as if they did not expect any, and seemed sullen and discontented.  The tents were not new, nor were they all good.  They seemed to me without number.  Passing in and out among them, I felt bewildered and doubtful whether I should ever learn to know one from another, or to find my patients.  Part of the camp was set apart for convalescents.  Here were dozens of Irishmen.  They were so maimed and shattered that every one should have been entitled to a discharge, but the poor fellows had no homes to go to, and were quite unable to provide for themselves.  There