March 10, 1863.
Don't feel quite so smart as I did. This getting well is slow business.
March 11, 1863.
The boys say they are ready to march, but don't get any further orders. Letters from home. Have written to father—wish I could see him.
March 14, 1863.
Not feeling so good these last few days.
March 15, 1863.
Sunday. Have my pants on and have made up my bed. If this keeps on I'll soon be able to hunt for something to eat.
March 16, 1863.
Ben Crowther is awful sick. He is a fine fellow and we hate to lose him. He is of better stuff than the average of us. I wish I could kill his nurse, for he has him tied down to the bed and stands laughing at his efforts to get loose. But it is the only way to keep him in one place, for he is out of his head. Talks to his wife as if she was right by his side.