Raleigh, Virginia, March 24, 1862.
Dear Uncle: Your letter of the 14th came to hand the day before yesterday. We all feel pleased to be in Fremont’s division. The only drawback is that it seems to keep us in the mountains, and we have had about enough of the snows, winds, and rains of the mountains. We have had a five-days snowstorm. It seems to be now clearing off bright. We occupy ourselves in these storms very much as you do, reading newspapers and discussing the war news. The recent victories convince a great many in the region south of us that the game is up. On the other hand, the Government at Richmond is making desperate efforts to get out under arms nearly the whole male population of military age. Many are running away from the drafting. Being the extreme outpost we see daily all sorts of queer characters. They sometimes come in boldly, sometimes with fear and trembling. I am often puzzled what to do with them, but manage to dispose of them as fast as they come.
An odd laughable incident occurred to Joe the other day. You know his fondness for children. He always talks to them and generally manages to get them on his knee. Stopping at a farm-house he began to make advances towards a little three-year old boy who could scarcely talk plain enough to be understood. The doctor said, “Come, my fine little fellow. I want to talk to you.” The urchin with a jerk turned away saying something the doctor did not comprehend. On a second approach the doctor made it out “Go to Hell, you dam Yankee!” This from the little codger was funny enough. . . .
I send you a dime shinplaster. — Good-bye.
Sincerely,
R. B. Hayes.
S. Birchard.
