The arms served us were of the Enfield pattern, known as rifled muskets, and were said to have been taken off of a rebel blockade-runner, which, together with the necessary belts, cap and cartridge boxes, made as complete an outfit as were given to any of the men serving in our army for the preservation of the Union.
One can scarcely imagine the ridiculous picture our boys made as they tried on their new clothes, so generously given them by "Uncle Sam." Here in one corner you might see a six-footer striving in vain to induce a pair of pants, by hard pulling and stretching, to reach below his knees, but finding no virtue in perseverance, he seizes the coat and finds to his dismay the same difficulty with the sleeves that he found with the pants--namely, too short. As he sits studying over his misfortune, he is hailed by another fellow just his counterpart, hobbling across the floor with a pair of pants so long that they threaten to trip him at every step.
But, O, dear! Look at that perfect picture of despair; a fellow who at home wears a number five boot, trying to make a pair of number ten shoes stay on his feet. Presently, however, a man is found whose fortune has dealt to him a pair of "gun-boats" a size too small, immediately, with true yankee spirit, a trade is made, and each is satisfied that he has made the best of the bargain; so by dint of exchanges, garments are found to fit, which at first seemed as if they had been distributed by common consent, the smallest men to receive those intended for the largest, and vice versa.
But what ails that fellow over yonder? He looks as if he had lost his last friend, and never expected to have another. We rush up to enquire the cause of his discomforture, but our anxiety is turned into laughter, when we behold him who had been congratulating himself on making such a fine appearance in a suit of blue; brushing off the threads and dust, and picking up one thread which seemed to be very long, but only producing the more thread by the greater picking, our fine fellow finds that he has ventilated the entire side of one of his trowsers legs. Hark! the Orderly cries "fall in for rations;" although we may not yet be perfectly acquainted with all orders pertaining particularly to camp life, yet all seem to understand this one. With a good appetite after our fun, we start for the mess-house. Some hungry man behind us as we march along, hopes the beef steak will be tender, and the potatoes well done, while another hints he does not like eggs too hard boiled, and a third says he must have his rolls hot, and good butter to eat on them, or he don't care for any supper; while a fourth never eats pies, and so of course is anxious to find a good pudding awaiting his ravenous appetite. But misery me! what a smell! where does it come from? most certainly from the mess-house, no denying that. As we enter, every man immediately loses his appetite; but bound to face the music, we all sit down, place our cups and plates on the table, and await coming events. Presently there comes a man with a basket of bread, another with a pan of beef and a third with a pail of coffee. Waiter No. 1 very dexterously causes a huge chunk of bread to alight on your plate; waiter No. 2 makes a piece of beef perform the same evolution, and your cup is soon filled. Here is your meal, now make the attack. Our bread and butter man seems patiently waiting, although very pale, and is only aroused from his stupor by a neighbor asking him if he is not going to eat; he meekly answers, by saying he is waiting for some sugar and milk for his coffee. But all are soon satisfied, and we go back to our barracks, our poor beef-steak-and-potato companion feeling very much disappointed.