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CHAPTER IV.
LABORS OF LOVE

Knitting and Sewing, and Writing Letters to “Our Soldiers.”

A patriotic co-operation between the citizens of Decatur and Atlanta soon sprang up, and in that, as in all things else, a social and friendly interchange of thought and feeling and deed existed; and we were never so pleased as when aiding each other in the preparation of clothing and edibles for “our soldiers,” or in some way contributing to their comfort.

Many of us who had never learned to sew became expert handlers of the needle, and vied with each other in producing well-made garments; and I became a veritable knitting machine. Besides the discharge of many duties incident to the times and tending to useful results, I knitted a sock a day, long and large, and not coarse, many days in succession. At the midnight hour the weird click of knitting needles chasing each other round and round in the formation of these useful garments for the nether limbs of “our boys,” was no unusual sound; and tears and orisons blended with woof and warp and melancholy sighs. For at that dark hour, when other sounds were shut out, we dared to listen with bated breath to “the still, small voice” that whispered in no unmistakable language suggestions which would have been rebuked in the glare of the noonday sun.

No mother nor sister nor wife nor aunt of a Confederate soldier, need be told what were the depressing suggestions of that “still, small voice” on divers occasions.

When the knitting of a dozen pairs of socks was completed, they were washed, ironed and neatly folded by one of our faithful negro women, and I then resumed the work of preparing them for their destination. Each pair formed a distinct package. Usually a pretty necktie, a pair of gloves, a handkerchief and letter, deposited in one of the socks, enlarged the package. When all was ready, a card bearing the name of the giver, and a request to “inquire within,” was tacked on to each package. And then these twelve packages were formed into a bundle, and addressed to an officer in command of some company chosen to be the recipient of the contents.

I will give a glimpse of the interior of my letters to our boys. These letters were written for their spiritual edification, their mental improvement and their amusement.

“Never saw I the righteous forsaken.”

 
“Full many a gem of purest ray serene,
The dark unfathomed caves of ocean bear;
Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,
And waste its sweetness on the desert air.”
 
 
P. S. – “Apples are good but peaches are better;
If you love me, you will write me a letter.” – M.
 

“Remember now thy Creator in the days of thy youth.”

 
“If in the early morn of life,
You give yourself to God,
He’ll stand by you ’mid earthly strife,
And spare the chast’ning rod.” —
 
 
P. S. – “Roses are red and violets blue,
Sugar is sweet and so are you.” – M.
 

“Love thy neighbor as thyself.”

 
“May every joy that earth can give
Around thee brightly shine;
Remote from sorrow may you live,
And all of heaven be thine.” —
 
 
P. S. – Remember me when this you see,
Though many miles apart we be. – M
 

“Love worketh no ill to his neighbor; therefore love is the fulfillment of the law.”

 
“This above all – to thine own self be true,
And it must follow as night the day,
Thou canst not then be false to any one.”
 
 
P. S. – “Sure as the vine twines round the stump,
You are my darling sugar lump.” – M.
 

“The night is far spent, the day is at hand; let us, therefore, cast off the works of darkness and let us put on the armour of light.”

 
“As for my life, it is but short,
When I shall be no more;
To part with life I am content,
As any heretofore.
Therefore, good people, all take heed,
This warning take by me —
According to the lives you lead,
Rewarded you shall be.”
 
 
P. S. – “My pen is bad, my ink is pale,
My love for you shall never fail.” – M.
 

“Blessed are the peacemakers; for they shall be called the children of God.”

 
“The harp that once through Tara’s halls
The soul of music shed,
Now hangs as mute on Tara’s wall,
As if that soul were fled.
So sleeps the pride of former days,
So glory’s thrill is o’er;
And hearts that once beat high for praise
Now feel that pulse no more.
No more to chiefs and ladies bright
The harp of Tara swells;
The chord alone that breaks at night
Its tale of ruin tells.
Thus Freedom, now so seldom wakes,
The only throb she gives
Is when some heart indignant breaks
To show that still she lives.” —
 
 
P. S. – “My love for you will ever flow,
Like water down a cotton row.” – M
 

“The earth is the Lord’s and the fullness thereof; the world and they that dwell therein.

“For He hath founded it upon the seas, and established it upon the floods.

“Who shall ascend into the hill of the Lord, or who shall stand in his holy place?

“He that hath clean hands and a pure heart; who hath not lifted up his soul unto vanity nor sworn deceitfully.”

 
“Know thyself, presume not God to scan.
The proper study of mankind is man.”
 
 
P. S. – “Round as the ring that has no end,
Is my love for you, my own sweet friend.” – M.
 

“God is love.”

 
“Poor soul, the centre of my sinful earth,
Fooled by those rebel powers that there array,
Why dost thou pine within and suffer dearth,
Painting thy outward walls so costly gay?
Why so large cost, having so short a lease,
Dost thou upon thy fading mansion spend?
Shall worms, inheritors of this excess,
Eat up thy charge? Is this thy body’s end?”
 
 
P. S. – “If you love me as I love you,
No knife can cut our love in two.” – M.
 

“But this I say, He that soweth sparingly shall reap also sparingly; and he which soweth bountifully, shall reap also bountifully. Every man according as he purposeth in his heart, so let him give, not grudgingly, or of necessity; for God loveth a cheerful giver.”

 
“Before Jehovah’s awful throne
Ye nations bow with sacred joy;
Know that the Lord is God alone;
He can create and He destroy.”
 
 
P. S. – “Above, below, in ocean, earth and skies,
Nothing’s so pretty as your blue eyes.” – M.
 

“I am come a light into the world, that whosoever believeth on Me should not abide in darkness.”

 
“And neither the angels in heaven above,
Nor the demons down under the sea,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.”
 
 
P. S. – “Remember me! Remember me!
When this you see – Remember me!” – M.
 

“The Lord shall command the blessing upon thee in the storehouses, and in all that thou settest thine hand unto.”

 
“Lives of great men all remind us,
We can make our lives sublime,
And departing, leave behind us,
Footprints on the sands of Time.”
P. S. – “Remember well and bear in mind,
A pretty girl’s not hard to find;
But when you find one nice and Gay
Hold on to her both night and day.” – M.
 

“He that covereth his sins shall not prosper; but whoso confesseth and forsaketh them shall have mercy.”

 
“I’d give my life to know thy art,
Sweet, simple, and divine;
I’d give this world to melt one heart,
As thou hast melted mine.” – Mary.
 
 
P. S. – “As the earth trots round the sun,
My love for you will ever run.” – M.
 

CHAPTER V.
THE THIRD MARYLAND ARTILLERY

Some Old Songs

At some time in 1863, it was my privilege to meet a gallant band of men whose faith in the justice of our cause was so strong that they were constrained to turn their faces Southward and imperil their lives in its defence. These men represented the highest type of manhood in Maryland.

Sickness entered their camp, and the good ladies of Decatur insisted upon providing the comforts of home for the sick and wounded. Those to whom it was my privilege to minister belonged to the Third Maryland Artillery, under command of Captain John B. Rowan.²

Among them was one whose appreciation of kindness shown him ripened into an undying friendship, Captain W. L. Ritter, a devoted Christian gentleman, and now an elder in Doctor LeFevre’s Church, Baltimore.

His fondness for that beautiful Southern song, by James R. Randall, entitled “Maryland, My Maryland!” was truly pathetic.

I subjoin the words to stir up the souls of our people by way of remembrance.

MARYLAND, MY MARYLAND

 
The despot’s heel is on thy shore,
Maryland, My Maryland!
His touch is on thy temple door,
Maryland, My Maryland.
Avenge the patriotic gore,
That flowed the streets of Baltimore,
And be the battle-queen of yore,
Maryland, My Maryland.
 
 
Hark to a wand’ring son’s appeal,
Maryland, My Maryland!
My mother state, to thee I kneel,
Maryland, My Maryland!
For life and death, for woe and weal,
Thy peerless chivalry reveal,
And gird thy beauteous limbs with steel,
Maryland, My Maryland.
 
 
Thou wilt not cower in the dust,
Maryland, My Maryland!
Thy beaming sword shall never rust,
Maryland, My Maryland.
Remember Carroll’s sacred trust,
Remember Howard’s warlike thrust,
And all thy slumberers with the just,
Maryland, My Maryland.
 
 
Come, ’tis the red dawn of the day,
Maryland, My Maryland!
Come with thy panoplied array,
Maryland, My Maryland.
With Ringold’s spirit for the fray,
With Watson’s blood at Monterey,
With fearless Lowe and dashing May;
Maryland, My Maryland.
 
 
Dear Mother! burst thy tyrant’s chain,
Maryland, My Maryland!
Virginia should not call in vain,
Maryland, My Maryland.
She meets her sisters on the plain,
“Sic Semper,” ’tis the proud refrain
That baffles minions back again,
Maryland, My Maryland.
 
 
Come! for thy shield is bright and strong,
Maryland, My Maryland!
Come! for thy dalliance does thee wrong,
Maryland, My Maryland.
Come to thy own heroic throng,
That stalks with liberty along,
And give a new Key to thy song,
Maryland, My Maryland.
 
 
I see the blush upon thy cheek,
Maryland, My Maryland!
But thou wast ever bravely meek,
Maryland, My Maryland.
But, lo! there surges forth a shriek,
From hill to hill, from creek to creek,
Potomac calls to Chesapeake,
Maryland, My Maryland.
Thou wilt not yield the vandal toll,
Maryland, My Maryland!
 
 
Thou wilt not crook to his control,
Maryland, My Maryland.
Better the fire upon thee roll,
Better the shot, the blade, the bowl,
Than crucifixion of the soul,
Maryland, My Maryland.
 
 
I hear the distant thunder hum,
Maryland, My Maryland!
The Old Line bugle, fife and drum,
Maryland, My Maryland.
She is not dead, nor deaf, nor dumb —
Huzza! she spurns the Northern scum;
She breathes! She burns! She’ll come, she’ll come!
Maryland, My Maryland.
 

An additional verse as sung by Mrs. Jessie Clark, of Crisp’s Co., Friday night, Sept. 12th, 1862.

 
Hark! tis the cannon’s deaf’ning roar,
Maryland, My Maryland!
Old Stonewall’s on thy hallow’d shore,
Maryland, My Maryland.
Methinks I hear the loud huzza
Ring through the streets of Baltimore —
Slaves no longer – free once more
Maryland, My Maryland.
 

There were other songs sung in those days. Some of the most popular were “Bonnie Blue Flag,” “Dixie,” “Bob Roebuck is my Soldier Boy,” “Who will Care for Mother Now?” “Her Bright Smile Haunts me Still,” “Let me Kiss Him for his Mother,” “All Quiet Along the Potomac To-Night,” “Rock me to Sleep, Mother,” “When I Saw Sweet Nellie Home,” “Just Before the Battle, Mother.” In a collection of old music, now never played, there lie before me copies of these songs. They were published in various Southern cities on paper not firm and smooth, but rather thin and coarse, but quite presentable. What memories these songs awake! Where, oh where, are those who sang them over thirty years ago! Who of the singers are now living? How many have gone to the Eternal Shore?

CHAPTER VI.
A DARING AND UNIQUE CHASE

The Capture and Re-capture of the Railroad Engine, “The General.”

In the early spring of 1862, there occurred an episode of the war which, up to that date, was the most exciting that had happened in our immediate section. The story has often been told; but instead of relying upon my memory, I will condense from the written statement of Mr. Anthony Murphy, of Atlanta, Georgia, who was one of the principal actors in the chase.

Mr. Murphy begins his narrative by saying: “On Saturday morning, April 12th, 1862, about 4 o’clock, I went aboard a passenger train that started then for Chattanooga, Tennessee. My business that day was to examine an engine that furnished power to cut wood and pump water for the locomotives at Allatoona, a station forty miles from Atlanta. As foreman of machine and motive power, it became my duty to go that morning. This train was in charge of Engineer Jeff Cain, and Conductor W. A. Fuller. It was known as a freight and passenger train. The train arrived in Marietta, twenty miles from Atlanta, shortly after daylight. I stepped from the coach and noticed a number of men getting on the car forward of the one I rode in. They were dressed like citizens from the country, and I supposed they were volunteers for the army, going to Big Shanty, now known as Kennesaw, a station about eighteen miles from Marietta, where troops were organized and forwarded to the Confederate army in Virginia and other points. At this station the train stopped for breakfast, and, as the engineer, conductor, myself and other passengers went to get our meals, no one was left in charge of the locomotive. I had about finished, when I heard a noise as if steam were escaping. Looking through a window I saw the cars move, saw the engineer and fireman at the table, and said to them: ‘Some one is moving your engine.’ By this time I was at the front door, and saw that the train was divided and passing out of sight.”

Mr. Murphy, the conductor, and the engineer then held a brief consultation. He asked about the men who got on at Marietta (who afterwards proved to be a Federal raiding party, Andrews and his men), and remarked: “They were the men who took the engine and three cars.” At the time he thought they were Confederate deserters, who would run the engine as far as it would have steam to run, and then abandon it. Mr. Murphy and his two comrades concluded that it was their duty to proceed after them. A Mr. Kendrick, connected with the railroad, coming up, they requested him to go on horseback to Marietta, the nearest telegraph station, and communicate with the superintendent at Atlanta, while they “put out on foot after a locomotive under steam.” Knowing they would reach a squad of track-hands somewhere on the line, they had some hope, and they did, in a few miles, meet a car and hands near Moon’s Station, about two miles from Big Shanty. They pressed the car, and two hands to propel it, which propelling was done by poles pressed against the ties or ground, and not by a crank. Soon they reached a pile of cross-ties on the track, and found the telegraph wire cut. Clearing off the ties, they pressed on until they reached Acworth Station, six miles from Big Shanty. There they learned that the train they were pursuing had stopped some distance from the depot, and having been carefully examined by its engineer, had moved off at a rapid rate. This satisfied the pursuers that the capturers of the engine “meant something more than deserters would attempt;” and then they “thought of enemies from the Federal army.” Says the narrator: “We moved on to Allatoona. At this place we received two old guns, one for Fuller, and one for the writer. I really did not know how long they had been loaded, nor do I yet, for we never fired them. These were the only arms on our engine during our chase. Two citizens went along from here, which made about seven men on our little pole-car. As we proceeded toward Etowah, we moved rapidly, being down grade, when suddenly we beheld an open place in the track. A piece of rail had been taken up by the raiders. Having no brake, we could not hold our car in check, and plunged into this gap, turning over with all hands except Fuller and myself, who jumped before the car left the track. The little car was put on again, and the poling man sent back to the next track-gang to have repairs made for following trains.”

Arriving at Etowah, the pursuers found the engine “Yonah,” used by the Cooper Iron Company, and pressed it into service. They got an open car, and stocked it with rails, spikes and tools, and moved on to Cartersville. Passing on to Rogers’ Station, they learned that the raiders had stopped there for wood and water, telling Mr. Rogers that they were under military orders, and that the engine crew proper were coming on behind. At Kingston the raiders had told that they were carrying ammunition to General Beauregard, on the line of the Memphis and Charleston Railroad, near Huntsville, Alabama. At this point the “Yonah” was sent back to Etowah, and the supply car of the pursuers coupled to the engine “New York.” But at Kingston the Rome Railroad connects with the Western & Atlantic road, and the Rome engine and train were in the way. Instead of clearing the track for the “New York,” the crowd at the Kingston depot, having learned the news, took possession of the Rome engine and some cars attached, and pulled out for the chase, which compelled Mr. Murphy and his friends to abandon their outfit and run to get on the same train. A few miles were made, when they found a pile of cross-ties on the rails, and the telegraph wires cut. Clearing the track they moved on, when they encountered another gap. Here Messrs. Murphy and Fuller, believing that they would meet the engine “Texas” with a freight train, left the obstructed train and pressed on again on foot, advising the crowd to return, which they did. The pursuers met the “Texas” two miles from Adairsville, and, motioning the engineer to stop, they went aboard and turned him back. At Adairsville they learned that Andrews had not been long gone. Says the narrator: “About three miles from Calhoun we came in sight for the first time of the captured engine, and three freight cars. They had stopped to remove another rail, and were in the act of trying to get it out when we came in sight. * * * As we reached them, they cut loose one car and started again. We coupled this car to our engine, and moved after them. * * * From Resaca to Tilton the road was very crooked, and we had to move cautiously. The distance between us was short. * * * I feared ambushing by Andrews – reversing the engine and starting it back under an open throttle valve. * * * To prevent us closing in on them, the end of the box car was broken out, and from this they threw cross-ties on the track to check our speed and probably derail us. * * * I had a long bar fastened to the brake wheel of the tender to give power so that four men could use it to help check and stop the engine suddenly. I also stood by the reverse lever to aid the engineer to reverse his engine, which he had to do many times to avoid the cross-ties.

“Passing through and beyond Tilton, we again came in sight. At this point the road has a straight stretch of over a mile. A short distance from Tilton and just as we rounded the curve, ‘The General’ with the raiders was rounding another curve, leaving the straight line, giving us a fine view for some distance across the angle. * * * The fastest run was made at this point. * * * I imagine now, as I write this, I see the two great locomotives with their human freight speeding on, one trying to escape, the other endeavoring to overtake, and if such had happened none might have been left to give the particulars of that exciting and daring undertaking. The chances of battle were certainly against us if Andrews had attempted fight.”

Just beyond Dalton the pursuers found the telegraph wire cut. On reaching the “tunnel,” they were satisfied that Andrews was short of wood, or the tunnel would not have been so clear of smoke. Passing through the tunnel they kept on, and beyond Ringgold, about two miles, the captors left “The General” and made for the woods. The pursuers were in sight of them. Mr. Fuller and others started after the raiders. Mr. Murphy went on the engine to examine the cause of the stop. He found no wood in the furnace, but plenty of water in the boiler. Says Mr. Murphy: “I took charge of the engine, ‘General,’ had it placed on the side-track, and waited for the first train from Chattanooga to Atlanta. I reached Ringgold about dark. I went aboard, and reaching Dalton, the first telegraph station, I sent the first news of our chase and re-capture of the ‘General’ to Atlanta.”

CHAPTER VII

Coming Home from Camp Chase – The Faithful Servant’s Gift – A Glimpse of Confederate Braves

“A letter from Marse Thomie,” said our mail carrier, Toby, as he got in speaking distance on his return from the post office.

“What makes you think so?” I said, excitedly.

“I know his hand-write, and this is it,” selecting a letter from a large package and handing it to me. The very first glimpse of the superscription assured me of his confident assertion.

The letter was addressed to our mother, and bore a United States postage stamp, and the beloved signature of her only son, Thomas J. Stokes. A thrill of gratitude and joy filled our hearts too full for utterance, as we read:

“My Dear Mother: I have learned that the soldiers of the 10th Texas Infantry will be exchanged for the United States troops very soon, perhaps to-morrow; and then, what happiness will be mine! I can scarcely wait its realization. A visit home, a mother’s embrace and kiss, the heart-felt manifestations of the love of two sisters, and the joy and glad expression of faithful servants. I may bring several friends with me, whom I know you will welcome, both for my sake and theirs – they are valiant defenders of the cause we love. Adieu, dear mother, and sisters, until I see you at home, ‘home, sweet home.’”

“Thomie is coming home!” “Thomie Stokes is coming home!” was the glad announcement of mother, sisters, and friends; and the servants took up the intelligence, and told everybody that Marse Thomie was coming home, and was going to bring some soldiers with him.

Another day dawned and love’s labor commenced in earnest. Doors were opened, and rooms ventilated: bed-clothing aired and sunned, and dusting brushes and brooms in willing hands removed every particle of that much dreaded material of which man in all his glory, or ignominy, was created. Furniture and picture frames were polished and artistically arranged. And we beheld the work of the first day, and it was good.

When another day dawned we were up with the lark, and his matin notes found responsive melody in our hearts, the sweet refrain of which was, “Thomie is coming” – the soldier son and brother. Light bread and rolls, rusks and pies, cakes, etc., etc., were baked, and sweetmeats prepared, and another day’s work was ended and pronounced satisfactory.

The third day, for a generous bonus, “Uncle Mack’s” services were secured, and a fine pig was slaughtered and prepared for the oven, and also a couple of young hens, and many other luxuries too numerous to mention.

When all was ready for the feast of thanksgiving for the return of the loved one, the waiting seemed interminable. There was pathos in every look, tone, and act of our mother – the lingering look at the calendar, the frequent glance at the clock, told that the days were counted, yea, that the hours were numbered. At length the weary waiting ended, and the joyous meeting came of mother and son, of sisters and brother, after a separation of four years of health and sickness, of joy and anguish, of hope and fear.

As we stood upon the platform of the Decatur depot, and saw him step from the train, which we had been told by telegram would bring him to us, our hearts were filled with consternation and pity, and tears unbidden coursed down our cheeks, as we looked upon the brave and gallant brother, who had now given three years of his early manhood to a cause rendered dear by inheritance and the highest principles of patriotism, and, in doing so, had himself become a physical wreck. He was lean to emaciation, and in his pale face was not a suggestion of the ruddy color he had carried away. A constant cough, which he tried in vain to repress, betrayed the deep inroads which prison life had made upon his system; and in this respect he represented his friends – in describing his appearance, we leave nothing untold about theirs. In war-worn pants and faded grey coats, they presented a spectacle never to be forgotten.

Joy and grief contended for the supremacy. We did not realize that even a brief period of good nursing and feeding would work a great change in the physical being of men just out of the prison pens of the frigid North, and wept to think that disease, apparently so deeply rooted, could not be cured, and that they were restored to us but to die. Perceiving our grief and divining the cause, our Thomie took us, our mother first, into his arms and kissed us, and said in his old-time way, “I’ll be all right soon.”

And Toby and Telitha, the house servants, came in for their share of kindly greeting.

Thomie then introduced us to Captain Lauderdale, Captain Formwalt, and Lieutenant McMurray, his Texas friends and comrades in arms. Our cordial, heart-felt welcome was appreciated by this trio of gentlemen, and to this day we receive from them messages of abiding friendship. Captain Lauderdale was one of the most perfect gentlemen I ever saw – tall, graceful, erect, and finely formed. His face, of Grecian mould, was faultless; and his hair, black as a raven’s plumage, and interspersed with grey, would have adorned the head of a king. His bearing was dignified and yet affable, and so polished and easy in manner as to invite most friendly intercourse.

Captain Formwalt was also a fine specimen of manhood – free and easy, gay and rollicking. He seemed to think his mission on earth was to bring cheerfulness and glee into every household he entered.

Lieutenant McMurray was unlike either of his friends. Apparently cold, apathetic and reserved, he repelled all advances tending to cordial relations, until well acquainted, after which he was metamorphosed into a kind and genial gentleman.

Thomie, dear Thomie, was a boy again, and while our guests were refreshing themselves preparatory to dinner, he was going all over the house, for every nook and corner was endeared by association. He opened the piano, and running his fingers over the keys with the grace and ease of his boyhood, he played accompaniments to his favorite songs, “Home Again,” and “Way Down Upon the Suwanee River,” trying to sing, but prevented by the irrepressible coughing. Then, with nervous hand, he essayed “When this Cruel War is Over.” Turning away from the piano, he went to the library and handled with tender care the books he had read in boyhood. Shakespeare, Milton, Byron and Moore possessed no interest for him now; and Blackstone and Chitty were equally ignored. The books his mother and sister read to him in his childhood were, as if by intuition, selected, and fondly conned and handled. His own name was written in them, and his tearful eyes lingered long and lovingly upon these reminders of boyhood’s happy hours. With a sigh he left the library, and espying Toby, who kept where he could see as much as possible of “Marse Thomie,” he called the boy and held an encouraging little conversation with him.

Dinner being ready, our mother led the way to the dining room. Our guests having taken the seats assigned them, Thomie took his near his mother – his boyhood’s seat at table. By request, Captain Lauderdale asked the blessing. And, oh, what a blessing he invoked upon the “dear ones, who, with loving hands, prepared this feast for the son and brother of the household, and for his friends in peace and comrades in war.” Pleasant conversation ensued, and all enjoyed the repast. But the gentlemen seemed to us to eat very little, and, in reply to our expression of disappointment, they explained the importance of limiting themselves for several days in this respect.

As there was no trunk to send for, and no valise to carry, we rightly surmised that the clothing of these good men was limited to the apparel in which they were clad, and it was decided by my mother and myself that I should go to Atlanta and get material for a suit of clothes for Thomie, and good warm underclothing for them all. Arrived at Atlanta, I was irresistibly led by that mystic power, which has often controlled for good results the acts of man, to go to Dr. Taylor’s drug store. Here I found King, our faithful negro man, as busy as a bee, labeling and packing medicine for shipment. I approached him and said:

“King, Thomie has come.”

“Marse Thomie?”

“Yes.”

“Thank God,” he said, with fervor.

When I was about leaving the store, he said:

“Miss Mary, just wait a minute, please, and I will get something that I want you to take to Marse Thomie, and tell him I don’t want him to be hurt with me for sending it to him. I just send it because I love him – me and him was boys together, you know, and I always thought he ought to ’er took me with him to the war.”

“What is it, King?”

“Just a little article I got in trade, Miss Mary,” was all the satisfaction he vouchsafed.

When he handed it to me, knowing by the sense of touch that it was a package of dry goods, I took it to Mrs. O’Connor’s millinery establishment, and asked the privilege of opening it there. Imagine my astonishment and delight, when I beheld a pattern of fine grey cassimere. I felt of it, and held it up between my eyes and the light. There was nothing shoddy about it. It was indeed a piece of fine cassimere, finer and better than anything I could have procured in Atlanta at that time. The circumstance was suggestive of Elijah and the ravens, and I thanked God for the gift so opportune, and lost no time in returning to the drug store, and thanking King, the raven employed by the Lord to clothe one of His little ones. Nor did I lose any time in adding to the package other articles of necessity, flannel and the best Georgia-made homespun I could procure, and was then ready to take the return train to Decatur. Thomie was deeply touched by the opportune gift, and said that King was a great boy, and that he must see him.

After supper I clandestinely left the house, and ran around to Todd McAllister’s and begged him to take the job of making the suit. He agreed to cut the coat, vest and pantaloons by measure, and for that purpose went home with me, shears and tape measure in hand. Having finished this important part of the job, he told me he could not make the suit himself, but he thought if I would “talk right pretty to the old lady,” she would do it. Next morning I lost no time in “talking pretty” to the old lady, and, having secured her promise to undertake the work, it was soon in her hands. With the help of faithful, efficient women, and I suspect of her husband, too, the job was executed surprisingly soon. In the meantime the making of flannel garments, and homespun shirts with bosoms made of linen pillow-cases, was progressing with remarkable celerity.