March 8th. A cold, wet, disagreeable night for picket duty. We are about as miserable as we can be. When off duty we find shelter in an old barn, until the arrival of our tents. Maryland mud is fully as bad as Virginia. Trying to make the best of our condition, hoping for sunshine and warmer weather. All is quiet along the picket line. Once in a while the boys take chances and shoot at the turkey buzzards, sailing through the air.
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