Our camp now puts one in mind of an Illinois farm-yard, roosters crowing and hens cackling all over camp. The roosters the boys are training for game-cocks.
"Hello, Hampton, I'll bet you ten dollars that my rooster can whip yours!". cries a soldier across the way, “Well, done!” replies Hampton of Company K, and a crowd of soldiers assembles, sprinkled considerably with shoulder straps—the fight commences; they show pluck-show that they have been well trained, but Hampton's rooster gets vanquished, so decide the judges. Thus the weary hours are killed in the camp of the Seventh.
