_April 8th._ Yesterday mother paid a visit to camp and insisted upon
me breaking out my hammock in order for her to see if I had covers
enough.

"I can never permit you to sleep in that, my dear," she said after
pounding and prodding it for a few numbers; "never--and I am sure the
Commander will agree with me after I have explained to him how
delicate you have always been."

Later in the afternoon she became a trifle mollified when I told her
that the master-at-arms came around every night and distributed extra
blankets to every one that felt cold. "Be sure to see that he gives
you enough coverings," she said severely, "or else put him on report,"
which I faithfully promised to do.

She was greatly delighted with the Y.M.C.A. and the Hostess Committee.
Here I stood her up for several bricks of ice cream and a large
quantity of cake. My fourth attempt she refused, however, saying by
way of explanation to a very pretty girl standing by, "It wouldn't be
good for him, my dear; my son has always had such a weak stomach. The
least little thing upsets him."

[Illustration: "SHE WAS GREATLY DELIGHTED WITH THE Y.M.C.A."]

"I believe you," replied the young lady, sympathetically, as she gazed
at me. I certainly looked upset at the moment. This was worse than the
underwear.

"So that's an Ensign!" she exclaimed later in an obviously
disappointed tone of voice; "well, I'm not so sure that I want you to