My winter crop of potatoes, which I planted in days of despair (March and April last), turned out very badly when I dug them about two months back.

Wheat returned so poorly last harvest, that very little, besides Indian corn, has been sown this year.
The governor's wound is quite healed, and he feels no inconveniency whatever from it.

With the natives we are hand and glove.

They throng the camp every day, and sometimes by their clamour and importunity for bread and meat (of which they now all eat greedily) are become very troublesome.
God knows, we have little enough for ourselves! Full allowance (if eight pounds of flour and either seven pounds of beef, or four pounds of pork, served alternately, per week, without either pease, oatmeal, spirits, butter, or cheese, can be called so) is yet kept up; but if the Dutch snow does not arrive soon it must be shortened, as the casks in the storehouse, I observed yesterday, are woefully decreased.
The convicts continue to behave pretty well; three only have been hanged since the arrival of the last fleet, in the latter end of June, all of whom were newcomers.

The number of convicts here diminishes every day; our principal efforts being wisely made at Rose Hill, where the land is unquestionably better than about this place.