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[margin] Tuesday June 6

We are now a parcel of sick men keeping
ship until our comrades return from the last
sledge party of the expedition. Except Mr. Ohlsen
and George Whipple we have not a sound man
among us. Thus wearily in our Castle of
Indolences we watch the changing days anxiously
noting bird and insect and vegetable life - as it
tells us of the coming summer.

One fly, of species unknown, buzzed
around William Godfrey’s head; and Mr.
Petersen brought in a cocoon from [which?] the grub
had eaten its way into liberty - Hans nearly
daily gives us a seal and for a passing luxury
we have Ptarmigan and hare. The little snow
birds crowd to Butler Ild. whence these songs pene=
trate the cracks of our rude housing - a snipe too -
a tringa was mercilessly shot on the first day
of his arrival. The andromeda shows green
upon its rusty winter dried stems the willows are
sappy and puffing, their catkins of last year drop-
ping off - and the stone crops are really green
and juicy in their [tendrils?] - all this under the
snow - so we know that summer is coming although
the tide hole again freezes along side and the ice
floe is seemingly as fast as ever.

[margin] Wednes.
[margin] June 7.

George Stephenson, my partner in the journey
to the north seems to recover strength even more
slowly than myself. The scurvy has affected his
heart and chest. The type of the disease is
singularly consistent.

Mr. Wilson can again boast of a practicable
foot - The ball of the toe is perfectly strong and
well preserved the stump round and ample -
Brooks bids fair to follow in the same road -
Considering the very meager room allowed me
this is a pleasant result. Petersen mopes
still. He has no creative morale.