He often relieved me of a task I had
sometimes found very wearisome, because so constantly recurring,--that
of writing letters for the sick. He made his own pens and his own ink,
of a deep green color, and seemingly indelible. A more gentle, kindly,
generous nature never existed, and yet his soldierly instincts were
strong, and almost before he could walk about well he "reported for
duty," but was soon relegated to his room and to special diet.
Spring proved hardly less disagreeable in Upper Georgia than winter
had been. The mud was horrible, and I could not avoid it, as the wards
were detached, occupying all together a very wide space. The pony was
no longer available, because he splashed mud all over me. Old Peter
brought me one day an immense pair of boots large enough for me to
jump into when going from one place to another, and to jump out of and
leave at the entrance of the sick wards. With these, an army blanket
thrown over my shoulders and pinned with a thorn, and my dress kilted
up like a washerwoman's, I defied alike the liquid streets and the
piercing wind. My "nursery" was at this time filled to overflowing.
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