December 28th, 1862

From Cecil Burleigh | Transcribed by Caleb Grove

Dear Wife,

It is Sunday morn, the sun has arisen clear and bright, the air is soft and pleasant as in June. The long roll has not beaten for a march yet, but we are awaiting orders. It seems a pity to mar the beauty of this day by military bustle but everything is changed here and before night it may be cold as erebus1.

I should not close this ‘till we had orders to start but the mail closes and I might not get a chance to send it, so I will take leave of you for the present. If we don’t go I will write you tomorrow. Give my love to all, and many kisses to you and the baby,

C. A. Burleigh

  1. Noun: Evening, the decline of the sun, whence darkness, blackness. - American Dictionary of the English Language, 1828 ↩

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