Berkley's first letter to her was written during that week of lovely weather, the first week in March.

The birds never sang more deliriously, the regimental bands never played more gaily; every camp was astir in the warm sunshine with companies, regiments, brigades, or divisions drilling.
At the ceremonies of guard mount and dress parade the country was thronged with visitors from Washington, ladies in gay gowns and scarfs, Congressmen in silk hats and chokers, apparently forgetful of their undignified role in the late affair at Bull Run--even children with black mammies in scarlet turbans and white wool dresses came to watch a great army limbering up after a winter of inaction.
He wrote to her: "Dearest, it has been utterly impossible for me to obtain leave of absence and a pass to go as far as the Farm Hospital.

I tried to run the guard twice, but had to give it up.

I'm going to try again as soon as there seems any kind of a chance.
"We have moved our camp.

Why, heaven knows.