CHAPTER XXI.
PATRICK'S DAY IN THE PENINSULA.
The _reveil_ had not yet sounded, when I felt my shoulder shaken gently as I lay wrapped up in my cloak beneath a prickly pear-tree.
"Lieutenant O'Malley, sir; a letter, sir; a bit of a note, your honor," said a voice that bespoke the bearer and myself were countrymen.

I opened it, and with difficulty, by the uncertain light, read as follows:-- Dear Charley,--As Lord Wellington, like a good Irishman as he is, wouldn't spoil Patrick's Day by marching, we've got a little dinner at our quarters to celebrate the holy times, as my uncle would call it.

Maurice, Phil Grady, and some regular trumps will all come, so don't disappoint us.

I've been making punch all night, and Casey, who has a knack at pastry, has made a goose-pie as big as a portmanteau.

Sharp seven, after parade.