"The General wishes it was in his power to conduct the troops into the best winter quarters; but where are those to be found? Should we retire into the interior portions of the country, we should find them crowded with virtuous citizens who, sacrificing their all, have left Philadelphia, and fled hither for protection. To their distress, humanity forbids us to add. This is not all. We should leave a vast extent of fertile country to be despoiled and ravaged by the enemy. These and other considerations make it necessary to take such a position (as this), and influenced by these considerations he persuades himself that officers and soldiers, with one heart and one mind, will resolve to surmount every difficulty with the fortitude and patience becoming their profession and the Sacred Cause in which they are engaged. He himself, will share in the hardships, and partake of every inconvenience." And with this resolve on his part, kept faithfully through the long weeks, the bitter winter was begun. It was on December 12th that a bridge of wagons was made across the Schuylkill and the army, already sick and broken down, moved over. On that day, Dr. Waldo, a surgeon from Connecticut made this entry in his diary: "Sunset. We are ordered to march over the river. I'm sick--eat nothing--no whiskey--no baggage. Lord-Lord-Lord." A few days later he makes this entry: "The army, who have been surprisingly healthy hitherto, now begin to grow sickly. They still show alacrity and contentment not to be expected from so young troops. "I am sick, discontented, out of humor. Poor food, hard lodging--cold weather--fatigue--nasty clothes--nasty cooking--smoked out of my senses, vomit half my time--the Devil's in it. I can't endure it. "Here comes a bowl of soup--full of burnt leaves and dirt.--Away with it, boys. I'll live like the chameleon upon air. 'Pooh-pooh,' says Patience. You talk like a fool.--See the poor soldier--with what cheerfulness he meets his foes and encounters hardships. If bare of foot he labors through mud and cold, with a song extolling war and Washington. If his food is bad he eats it with contentment and whistles it into digestion.--There comes a soldier--his bare feet are seen through his worn out shoes. His legs are nearly naked from his tattered remains of an old pair of stockings--his shirt hanging in strings,--his hair dishevelled--his face meagre--his whole appearance pictures a person forsaken and discouraged. He comes and cries with despair--I am sick. My feet are lame--my legs are sore--my body covered with tormenting itch--my clothes worn out--my constitution broken. I fail fast. I shall soon be no more. And all the reward I shall get will be--'Poor Will is dead.'" On the 21st of December this entry appears: