We stopped for a short noon-rest near a little church (marked on our maps as Shoal-Creek Church), which stood back about a hundred yards from the road, in a grove of native oaks.
The infantry column had halted in the road, stacked their arms, and the men were scattered about--some lying in the shade of the trees, and others were bringing corn-stalks from a large corn-field across the road to feed our horses, while still others had arms full of the roasting-ears, then in their prime.

Hundreds of fires were soon started with the fence-rails, and the men were busy roasting the ears.

Thomas and I were walking up and down the road which led to the church, discussing the chances of the movement, which he thought were extra-hazardous, and our path carried us by a fire at which a soldier was roasting his corn.

The fire was built artistically; the man was stripping the ears of their husks, standing them in front of his fire, watching them carefully, and turning each ear little by little, so as to roast it nicely.

He was down on his knees intent on his business, paying little heed to the stately and serious deliberations of his leaders.