Breakfasted upon bread dipped in bacon fat and fragment of the real fried article. Last evening Alphonso and I roamed the riverside, where he wrote to his missus, as he termed his lady-love, and I did a sketch. You could see miles of cultivated country, rolling hill and valley, and hardly one farm-house. The farm people here keep to the towns, as in other parts they congregate in the villages.
That fictitious temperature, still haunts me. The C.O. today gravely underlined it and said “give him another day”. The indefinable sensation of having finished with a certain phase of existence steals over me and I feel that it is time for the next act to open.
Walk March 