August 17 — I was sick sure enough to-day, and in bed, or more properly in blanket, and wallowed around on the bosom of Mother Earth all day, with now and then a little grunt thrown in for a cradle song.
Three Years in the Confederate Horse Artillery — George Michael Neese.
Previous post: War Letters of William Thompson Lusk.
Next post: John C. West–A Texan in Search of a Fight.
