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The Baby of the Regiment.
We were in our winter camp on Port Royal Island.

It was a lovely November morning, soft and spring-like; the mocking-birds were singing, and the cotton-fields still white with fleecy pods.

Morning drill was over, the men were cleaning their guns and singing very happily; the officers were in their tents, reading still more happily their letters just arrived from home.

Suddenly I heard a knock at my tent-door, and the latch clicked.