He permits a little bantering even; a rough joke against himself, if it spring sincerely from the complexion of the fact.
The poor men are terribly tired of this work: such bivouacking, packing, unpacking; and continual waiting for the tug of battle, which never comes.

Biscuits, meal are abundant enough; but flesh-meat wearing low; above all, no right sleep to be had.

Friedrich's own table, I should think, is very sparingly beset ("A cup of chocolate is my dinner on marching-days," wrote he once, this Season); certainly his Lodging,--damp ground, and the straw sometimes forgotten,--is none of the best.

And thus it has to last, night after night and day after day.
On September 8th, General Bulow went out for a little butcher's-meat; did bring home "200 head of neat cattle [I fear, not very fat] and 300 sheep." [Tempelhof, v.

172.] Loudon, all this while, is laboring, as man seldom did, to bring Butturlin to the striking place; who continues flaccid, Loudon screwing and rescrewing, altogether in vain.