July 29. Monday.—A bright, warm day. Marched yesterday fourteen miles; today, nine miles to Weston, which we reached soon after noon. A pretty county town of one thousand people or so, surrounded by hills, picturesque and lovely. Encamped on a hill looking towards the town, my tent where I now sit opening upon a sweet scene of high hills, green smooth sward, or forests. The west fork of the Monongahela flows at the bottom of the hill, just below the rear of the field officers’ tents.
