marked "A One." So then, every morning at nine o'clock, our
little half-window was black with the heads of the curious squaws
and bucks, trying to get a glimpse of the fair baby's bath. A
wonderful performance, it appeared to them.

Once a week this room, which was now a nursery combined with
bedroom and living-room, was overhauled by the stalwart Bowen.
The baby was put to sleep and laced securely into the
pappoose-basket. He was then carried into the kitchen, laid on
the dresser, and I sat by with a book or needle-work watching
him, until Bowen had finished the room. On one of these
occasions, I noticed a ledger lying upon one of the shelves. I
looked into it, and imagine my astonishment, when I read: "Aunt
Hepsey's Muffins," "Sarah's Indian Pudding," and on another page,
"Hasty's Lemon Tarts," "Aunt Susan's Method of Cooking a Leg of
Mutton," and "Josie Well's Pressed Calf Liver." Here were my own,
my very own family recipes, copied into Bowen's ledger, in large
illiterate characters; and on the fly-leaf, "Charles Bowen's
Receipt Book." I burst into a good hearty laugh, almost the first
one I had enjoyed since I arrived at Camp Apache.

The long-expected promotion to a first lieutenancy came at about
this time. Jack was assigned to a company which was stationed at
Camp MacDowell, but his departure for the new post was delayed
until the spring should be more advanced and I should be able to
undertake the long, rough trip with our young child.

The second week in April, my baby just nine weeks old, we began
to pack up. I had gained a little in experience, to be sure, but
I had lost my health and strength. I knew nothing of the care of