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August 19, 1899

Saturday. Breakfast 5 A.m. Washed clothes. The barrack is evidently the old house of a rich man, across the road is a broad river. Stone foundation. Only two stories, second almost all open with projecting eaves. The entrance to the rear wing, where my bunk is, is up a flight of stone steps decorated with large flowering plants in huge pots, through an arch that must have been part of an old church and looks at least a hundred years old. The grounds show that until lately they must have been well cared for. A thing that touched me, the beds are marked with the same kind of stone bottles stuck in the ground that my father used to mark the beds on the street front of the old house down town. The insurgents tore up the track between us and Manila last night, so there were no trains to-day.