Camp Chase Sept 18th 1862

Dear Wife,

I again take my pencil to write you a few lines and report upon the progress of affairs in this part of Dixie. We seem to have come to a deadlock, we have work enough to do but we do not move from here as I expected and I do not think we shall move at present, but I can’t tell much about it.

I have not been well the past week and have felt as though something to eat would be quite a blessing, but I am getting better now so that I can go on the army grub. I have had [a] cold and something with a cough but I hope

Camp Chase, September 25th, 1862

Dear Wife,

I write you so often that you will hardly have time to read my letters if you get them all, but when I set down to write I can’t think of half I want to say.

We are going to send home some things I don’t want. I think, [unintelligible], that will contain them will be at Ives Station. I shall send my pistol and [a] few other things, but can’t tell now just what.

I want you to brighten up the pistol and put some sweet oil on it to keep it from rusting.

I had a word from E. D. Dickerman, he says he will pay you those fifty dollars –

Camp Chase, Sept 23rd, 1862

My dear wife,

I have just read your letter to me written Sunday, it is strange to me you did not get my last letter for it was sent on the same mail with Mark's. Perhaps you failed to send to the post office if you have received that and the one I wrote Sunday.

You will have the benefit of all the advice I can give you about business, but for fear you will not get them I will write what I have time to write. You must act on your own judgement.

I should prefer that Boss Ed should keep [Fanny] if he will keep her all winter, and I would let him

[Sept. 21st/61]

Oh dear, shall I ever stop writing; here goes another piece of paper. Dr. Swift says that if you are not likely to receive what you laid out in soldiering, to write how much your bill is, and he will see it is made up.

Edward hasn’t come home from New York yet, I made out to arrive home safe but weary and sad of course.

The afternoon of the day you left, Will Sherwood; it seems he drove the horse out to Whitneyville and left the trunk, desk, &c, and then [went] back to New Haven, and when we came home he stopped to get the things; blunderhead, he got into the most unhandy place he could