CHAPTER XIV.

REPAIRING DAMAGES--A MOTHER MADE HAPPY--CONCLUSION 170

A BLOCKADED FAMILY.

I.

On a glorious sunshiny morning in the early summer of 1861 I was

on my way to the school-house on the plantation of a gentleman who

lived near Eufaula, Alabama, and in whose service I remained during

the period of the war.

As I was nearing the little school-room on a rising knoll, all

shaded with great oaks and sentineled with tall pines, I heard

skipping feet behind me, and one of my scholars exclaiming, “Here

is a letter for you, Miss A----! It has just been brought from the

office by ‘Ed’”--the negro boy who was sent every morning for the

mail.

A glance at the handwriting gave me to know it was from my father.

I soon came to a pause in the school path: for my father wrote that

my brothers were preparing to start for Richmond, Virginia, as

soldiers of our new formed Southern Confederacy. As he wished to

have all his children united under his roof, before the boys went

away, my father earnestly desired me to ask leave of absence for a

few days, so that I might join the home circle also.

The suspending of the school was easily arranged, and I was soon

at home assisting in preparing my brothers for military service,

little dreaming they were about to enter into a four-years’

conflict!

But oh, how clearly even now I read every milestone of that

convulsed period, as I look back upon it after a quarter of a

century! Our soldiers, in their new gray uniforms, all aglow with

fiery patriotism, fearing ere they should join battle that the

last booming cannon would have ceased to reverberate among the

mountains, hills, and valleys of “Old Virginia.” The blue cockades

streaming in the wind, while Southern songs, inspirations of the

moment, were heard on all sides: “We conquer or die,” and “Farewell

to Brother Jonathan,” leading with fervent ardor.

While the war was in progress, it so happened that I was far

removed from the seaboard and border States, in southern Alabama,

where our people, encompassed and blockaded by the Federal forces,

were most sadly straitened and distressed. It is of the exigencies

of that stormy day, as hydra-headed they rose to view, that I have

to write; of the many expedients to which we were reduced on our

ever-narrowing territory, daily growing not only smaller, but less

and less adequate for the sustenance of ourselves, our soldiers,

and the Northern prisoners who were cast upon us by the fortunes of

war.

Blame us not too severely, you who fought on the Union side; we,

too, loved the Union our great and good Washington bequeathed us:

with what deep devotion God knoweth. But, as Satan sagely remarks

in the Book of Job, “all that a man hath will he give for his

life.” Also a writer of profane history has truly said that “a

man’s family is the nearest piece of his country, and the dearest

one.” Need there be any wonder that, when a political party, with

no love in its heart for the Southern white people, came into

power, a party which we believed felt that the people of the South

were fit only for the pikes hidden at Harper’s Ferry, we should

have cried out, “What part have we in David? to your tents, O

Israel.” It is cheering to know that our deeds and intentions have

one great Judge, who will say, “Neither do I condemn thee.”

I well remember the day when word came with lightning speed over

the wires, “The State of Georgia”--my native State, one of the

original thirteen of revolutionary fame--“is out of the Union.”

I also remember that we were by no means elated at the thought

that our own noble commonwealth had seceded from the sisterhood of

states. Feelings of sadness, rather, somewhat akin to those of the

Peri outside the gate of Paradise, overcame us, but we thought and

said, come weal or woe, success or adversity, we will willingly

go down or rise with the cause we have embraced. And at that

moment an unpleasant recollection rushed to mind, which caused me

to think that perhaps, after all, secession was not so very bad.

I remembered a temperance lecturer from one of the New England

States, who came to our settlement and who was kindly received and

warmly welcomed in our Southern homes. There was nothing too good

for this temperance lecturer from the far North. He was given

earnest and attentive audiences, with never a thought that in the

guise of the temperance reformer his one sole purpose was to make

a secret survey of our county, to ascertain which settlements

were most densely populated with slaves, for the already maturing

uprising of the blacks against the whites.

After the failure of the insurrection at Harper’s Ferry, we saw

with sorrow deep-felt that the three places in our own county which

were known to all too well to be most thickly peopled with slaves

were marked on John Brown’s map of blood and massacre, as the first

spots for the negro uprising for the extermination of the Southern

whites.

When my brothers had left for Virginia, I started again for

southern Alabama, to renew my school duties. As the train

sped onward through the tall, long-leaved pines and funereal

cypress-trees rising here and there on either side, a feeling of

homesick desolation gathered as a thick mist around me, with vague

and undefined forebodings of sorrows in store for us.

To add to the depression, clouds dark and lowering were slowly

looming up and spreading themselves over the nether heavens,

while low and distant thunder dying plaintively away seemed never

before to have fallen so mournfully on my ear. As I looked from

the window of the speeding train to the dark green gloom of the

almost unbroken forest, the low wail of the wind in the tops of the

pines, the lowering dark clouds dimly outlined through the shaded

vista, pressed down my heart as with a great sorrow; the far-away

mutterings of thunder, the low moan of the wind as it rocked to and

fro the tops of the pines, came to me as the Banshee’s lonely wail.

All seemed to presage some dire affliction. Could it be that my

father’s household had joined together for the last time in their

earthly home? Poe’s ghastly, grim, and ancient raven seemed to

speak the “Nevermore;” and, alas! nevermore did we children of that

happy circle ever meet again.

As the train gathered itself up in the village of Hurtville, the

inky black clouds, flashes of almost blinding lightning, and heavy

peals of rolling thunder told that the tempest was unchained.

I still had a distance of fourteen or fifteen miles to travel by

the hack before I should reach my school. But as the storm began to

increase so much in violence, I deemed it advisable to remain in

Hurtville for the night. On inquiring for a place to stop at for

the night I was directed to Mrs. Hurt, whose spacious mansion and

large and beautiful flower yard and grounds stood fair to view from

the little village depot.

Hitherto I had passed the village by, in my trips home and

back to school again during my vacation days, so that I was

altogether a stranger in the home of Mrs. Hurt, but on making

her acquaintance was pleased to find her most kind and generous.

My quiet satisfaction was further augmented by a loved school

companion stepping into the room most unexpectedly, ere I had been

seated half an hour. It was a glad surprise for both. Her father

and mother lived in the village, and as the violent wind and rain

storm had made roads and bridges impassable for the time being,

I accepted the invitation of my friend to spend the time of my

detention with her.

One pleasing episode of that visit yet clings to memory. It so

happened that one of the negro girls of the house was to be married

the very week I was detained. Preparations in various ways had been

making for several days before the celebration of the ceremony.

Dear Winnie, if still a sojourner here, and you chance to see these

lines, I know your memory with mine will turn back on the wheels

of time to that afternoon, when we were seated on the colonnade of

your father’s house. With flowers scattered all around, our laps

and hands full, we twined the wreath for the negro girl, the bride

elect for the evening. When twilight had deepened into darkness,

the bride was called into your room to make ready for the marriage.

When fully robed in her wedding garment, she was inspected by each

and every member of the household, and judged to be quite _au

fait_. But Winnie pulled off her own watch and chain, together with

her bracelets, and with these further adorned the bride. She was

married in the wide hall of her master’s house, for having been

raised in the house almost from her cradle, her marriage taking

place in one of the cabins was not to be thought of.

Directly under the supervision of the mistress of the house, a

supper that would have been pleasing to the taste of an epicure

was served on tables placed out in the smooth gravelly yard. Then

after the feasting was over, a round of merry plays, interspersed

with the merrier songs and dance, followed. Perhaps no happier

beings existed that night. It was like a vision of fairy-land. The

full moon chosen for the occasion rode in silent majesty across

the star-gemmed heavens; fleecy white clouds flitted like shadowy

phantoms across its silvery path; the dark pines, half in shadow,

half in sheen, loomed vast and giant-like on the outskirts of

the village. In the deeper forest could be heard the weird notes

of the whip-poor-wills. The pleasing strains of the violin, the

thrumming of the banjo, accompanied by many negro voices, awoke

the sleeping echoes. From the front colonnade, before us lay the

slumbering village all so quietly under the starry firmament. We

listened there to the mellow peals of negro laughter, to their

strange songs, mingling with the strains of the violin, and the low

breathing of the night wind in the forest.

As we roam back in the past, events of earlier days rise in bright

view to mind; one link in memory’s chain runs into another. I

cannot forbear here referring to an incident which occurred a

few years before the civil war. There came to our settlement

from the North, three cultured, refined, and educated ladies as

school-teachers. Their first Sabbath of worship in the South was

at the Mount Olive Baptist church, in Harris County, Georgia. The

pastor of the church, for some unknown cause, failed to appear

at the hour appointed for service. We waited for some time and

still no preacher. Then the good old deacon, known by all as

“Uncle Billy” Moore, who had lived by reason of strength beyond

the allotted threescore and ten, arose, and said, as the hour for

service was passing, as the minister’s arrival seemed doubtful,

and as the congregation had all assembled, he would suggest that

Uncle Sol Mitchell, an old and honored negro, preach for us, as

he was present, and a member and preacher in good standing in the

Mount Olive church. There was not even a shadow of an objection to

the negro slave’s occupying the pulpit, as our friends from the

far North were witness. Ah, friends of the Green Mountain and Bay

State, you will, if yet in the flesh, remember with me that Sabbath

so long ago in the South, when the negro slave walked up to the

pulpit, opened the hymn-book, and announced the old sacred song:

“When I can read my title clear,

To mansions in the skies.”

I remember how loudly my dear father tried to sing--though only a

poor singer--just because Uncle Sol was going to preach; how Sol

gave the verses out by couplets to be sung, as was the custom then

in the country. All joined in singing that sacred song, and bowed

the knee when Uncle Sol said, “Let us pray.” I am very sure I have

never knelt with more humble devotion and reverence than on that

Sabbath morning.

Roads and bridges having been made passable after the storm, I said

the “Good-by” to the friends I had found in the pleasant country

village, and resumed my journey.

It was a pleasing ride that balmy summer morning, ennobling to the

soul, as nature’s great book unrolled its series of beautiful

scenes. Far in the azure blue the great white banks of clouds

seemed to lie at anchor, so slow of sail were they; the gloom of

the dense forest, gently waving its boughs to the morning breeze,

would greet the eye; the dulcet murmur of gurgling streams would

break on the ear never so gently; quiet cottages, surrounded

with flowers and fruits, seemed the abodes of peace and content.

Grass-green marshes all flecked with flowers of varied tints,

with here and there a tall pine or sombre cypress standing as

sentinels of the blooming mead; song-birds caroling their sweet

lays as they flitted from bough to bough, or lightly soaring in

space; fields of deadened trees, all draped with the long gray

Spanish moss, reminded one of the ancient Romans mantled with the

toga, as they were silhouetted against the sky; groups of great

oaks, with clusters of the mistletoe pendent, calling to mind the

ancient Britons with their strange and terrible religion of the

Druids, when they met together in their sacred groves for the

celebration of mystical rites. Now an open field of corn, green

of blade, gently billowed by the wind, an old gray-haired farmer

plowing, seemingly oblivious to all surrounding objects, and

singing, as if from the fullness of a glad soul, the refrain, “I

have some friends in glory.” Ah, honest farmer, thought I, many

of us will join that sad refrain ere this strife is ended! On,

past a large plantation all in cotton, the clashing of the many

hoes, in the hands of slaves, in unison with the merry songs that

floated far on the gentle zephyrs. The lone country church gleaming

white from a wilderness of foliage, with its grass green mounds,

so quiet and still. At times the winds came floating past, laden

with the resinous odor of myriad pines, and filled the surrounding

atmosphere with a sweetness of perfume surpassing the far-famed

incense of Arabia.

In the near distance the home of my generous employer rose to view,

in every respect the characteristic Southern home, with its wide

halls, long and broad colonnade, large and airy rooms, the yard

a park in itself, fruits and flowers abounding. Here there was

little or nothing to remind us of the impending conflict. We were

far from the border States and remote from the seaboard. We had

surmised that our sequestered vale must have been the spot where

the Indian chief and his braves thrust their tomahawks deep down

in the soil, with their “Alabama, here we rest!” But soon it came

home to us, as the earnestness of the strife began to be realized,

and when we found ourselves encompassed by the Federal blockade,

that we had to depend altogether upon our own resources; and no

sooner had the stern facts of the situation forced themselves upon

us, than we joined with zealous determination to make the best of

our position, and to aid the cause our convictions impressed on us

as right and just. And if up to that time, in the South, many had

engaged in work purely as a matter of choice, there were none, even

the wealthiest, who had not been taught that labor was honorable,

and who had very clear ideas of how work must be done; so when our

misfortunes came, we were by no means found wanting in any of the

qualities that were necessary for our changed circumstances.

Surely there was work enough to be done. Our soldiers had to be fed

and clothed; our home ones had to be fed and clothed. All clothing

and provisions for the slaves had to be produced and manufactured

at home. Leather had to be of our own tanning; all munitions of

war were to be manufactured inside the blockade. The huge bales of

kerseys, osnaburgs, and boxes of heavy brogan-shoes, which had been

shipped from the North to clothe and shoe the slaves, were things

of the past. Up to the beginning of the war we had been dependent

on the North for almost everything eaten and worn. Cotton was

cultivated in the South almost universally before the war, it was

marketed in the North, it was manufactured there, and then returned

in various kinds of cloth-material to us.

II.

But now the giant emergency must be met, and it was not long ere

all were in good training; and having put hands to the plow, there

was no murmuring nor looking back. The first great pressing needs

were food and clothing. Our government issued orders for all those

engaged in agriculture to put only one tenth of their land in

cotton, there being then no market for cotton. All agriculturists,

large or small, were also required by our government to give for

the support of our soldiers one tenth of all the provisions they

could raise,--a requirement with which we were only too willing to

comply.

In southern Alabama before the war the cultivation of cereals was

quite rare. There Cotton was indeed king. I think this saying was

true in all the Southern States. It applied to all the territory

south of Virginia, Tennessee, and Missouri, at any rate.

When the blockade had inclosed the South, our planters set about

in earnest to grow wheat, rye, rice, oats, corn, peas, pumpkins,

and ground peas. The chufa, a thing I had never heard of before,

now came to the front, and was soon generally cultivated, along

with the ground pea, as our position necessitated the production

of cheap food for swine. The chufa was easily cultivated, and on

fresh sandy or porous soil produced large crops. Every available

spot was planted with the chufa, ground peas, and peas. Even in

orchards the interstices between the fruit-trees were filled with

these nutritious ground nuts. I remember an orchard near where I

taught school, planted with chufas. The tubers were dropped about

every two feet, in furrows three feet apart. They seemed like

great bunches of grass, which spread until the interval between

the plants was one mass of green foliage and roots from furrow to

furrow. The owners of that orchard said the feed for their poultry

had cost them nothing that season, as the whole brood of fowls

lived among the chufas from the time they left the perch in the

morning till they were called to be housed for the night, and that

never before had poultry been so well fitted for the table, never

before had the flesh been so white or so well flavored.

Ground peas were rarely grown before the war, and were generally

called “goobers.” I do not remember that I knew them by any other

name; so one day in school hours, when one of the little scholars

called to me that “Hetty’s got my pindars,” I was somewhat

mystified as to what a “pindar” was, and when I called the little

girl to fetch the pindars to me, she laid two or three goobers in

my hand. They were to be seen on all sides, branching out in all

directions, in patches large and small. Many planters in giving

their corn and cotton the “laying-by” plowing, as it was called,

would plant in the middle furrows ground peas, chufas, and cuttings

from the sweet potato vines, which required very slight additional

labor in harvesting the crops; and by the time the crops had all

been gathered in and frost appeared, the tubers were well matured,

and were great helps in fattening pork, thereby enabling the

planter to preserve more corn for the use of the government.

Beside growing the ground pea for help in fattening pork, a good

supply was housed for seed and the use of the family. I have

pleasant recollections of the many winter evenings when we would

have the great oven brought into the sitting-room, placed on the

hearth, with glowing red coals underneath, filled with white sand,

in which we parched the pindars nice and brown. Or perhaps the

oven would be filled partly with our home-made syrup, with raw

ground peas hulled and dropped into the boiling syrup. Properly

cooked, what nice peanut candy that made! Oil from the peanuts was

also expressed for lamps and other uses during war times. In fine,

peanuts, ground peas, goobers, and pindars, all one species, though

known by all these names, played an important part during the

blockade.

Many planters who had never grown wheat before were surprised at

the great yield of grain to the acreage sown. I well remember

hearing a brother of Mrs. G----, who lived in Troy, Alabama, tell

of very highly fertilizing one acre of already rich soil, as a test

of what he really could reap from an acre thus treated. The yield

went far beyond his most sanguine expectations, for that one acre

yielded seventy-five bushels of wheat. Another wealthy planter,

living in the village of Glennville, Alabama, had his overseer

single out and lay off one acre of very rich hammock land, which

was only lightly fertilized, from which he reaped fifty measured

bushels. Of course this was only testing what good uplands, or

hammocks rich in soil, would yield in wheat by highly or lightly

fertilizing. Mr. G---- had sown quite heavily in wheat when all

avenues for its entrance to the South had been closed. I remember

one twelve acres of hammock land that Mr. G---- had sown in wheat,

so rich of soil that no fertilizing was necessary. Morning,

noon, and night that twelve-acre hammock in wheat was a topic of

conversation at the table during our meal hours. In one of our

afternoon rides, when school hours were over for the day, we made

haste to view this paragon of a field, and as we halted our horses

on the crest of a hill from which we could “view the landscape

o’er,” what a grand panorama came into view! There, not the “fields

arrayed in living green,” but wave on wave of long amber wheat

gently rolling in the wind. A large stream of water bounded two

sides of the hammock, and heavy green foliage formed a background

in vivid contrast to the golden heads whose every culm seemed on

a level. We slid almost unconsciously from our saddles, hitched

the horses, and were soon standing in the midst of the wheat, with

eyes scarcely able to peer over that vast plain of golden-yellow.

We took off our hats and gave them a sail on the already ripening

grain,--for it was near harvest time,--and there they lay without

perceptibly bending the stalks of wheat. We plucked some of the

grain, rubbed it in our hands to free and winnow it, and found it

sweet and palatable. Backward flew our thoughts to that field of

wheat near Lake Tiberias through which Christ and his disciples

passed on the Sabbath day and plucked the “ears of corn” and did

eat, for they hungered.

The yield of the hammock was estimated to be at least five hundred

bushels; but a rainy spell set in just as the reaping began, and it

rained in showers, light and heavy, more or less for twenty-seven

days. As the means then for harvesting wheat were of a primeval

order, the reaping was slow and tedious, so that most of the grain

was badly damaged, and some was entirely spoiled.

There was great bother when it came to threshing the wheat;

many and varied were the means employed for freeing the chaff

from the grain. Some planters threshed and fanned the wheat at

their gin-houses. I remember a portable thresher came into our

settlement, and traveled from plantation to plantation, threshing

for a percentage of the grain. Others, whose sowing and reaping

was on a small scale, resorted to ruder methods to free the

grain,--methods which called to mind the rural life and manners of

ancient times. Sometimes the wheat was threshed with the rudest

sort of home-made flails.

A woman, whose husband and two sons were in the army, lived near

our settlement in a cottage which stood some little distance from

the roadside, in a cluster of oaks, whose foliage almost hid the

house from passers-by. While yet some rods from the dwelling, one

day, there came to our ears a succession of regular thwacks, the

meaning of which we could not define by the sound. As the woman

was a neighbor, we turned aside to investigate, and opened wide

our eyes when we beheld the woman seated in a chair, with a common

sized barrel just in front of her, within good striking distance.

There she sat, a sheaf of wheat held with both hands, and with this

she was vigorously belaboring the barrel, at every stroke a shower

of wheat-grains raining down upon quilts and coverlets which had

been arranged to catch it. By this simple process she flailed as

much as a bushel or two at one time. She then spread the sheets out

on the ground, in the open air, and poured the wheat on them in a

continuous stream. The wind acted as a great “fan,” the grain by

its own weight falling in one place, while the chaff was carried

off by the wind. When that threshing was ground at the flouring

mill and used up, the same rude flailing was repeated.

Another contrivance for threshing wheat, even more unique, was

that of a woman whose husband also was in our army. She was left

with five small children, but managed to cultivate a small farm

with those of the five children who had grown enough to give a

little help. She raised a small plat of wheat year by year as the

war went on. She had in her smoke-house a large trough that was

used for salting pork when killed in the winter; indeed, nearly

all smoke-houses then had large troughs, some as many as two or

three, hewn and dug out from the stocks of trees, and sometimes six

or eight feet long. They were very useful in holding salted pork,

salt, soap, and dried bacon packed down in leached ashes. The woman

cleaned her trough nicely, untied the sheaves of wheat, and placed

them in the trough, not quite brimming, so as to lose none of the

grains; then with heavy sticks and little wooden mauls she had

roughly shaped, she and her little children would beat the grain

free of the husks. It was then winnowed the same way as was the

woman’s who threshed over the barrel.

Hundreds during the war resorted to such devices for freeing their

grain of chaff; yet flour was very scarce, although the South

put forth her best energies to cultivate wheat. After delivering

the government tithe, and sharing with our home ones, the crop

rarely lasted till another harvest. It was quite amusing to hear

the neighbors as they met in social gatherings, or perhaps when

separating from service at church, press their friends to come

and see them, or come and have dinner, “_For we have got a barrel

of flour_.” It was even more amusing to have friends sit at the

dining-table, and, when a waiter of brown, warm biscuits was passed

round, to see them feign ignorance of what they were.

Bolted meal, when obtainable, made a very good substitute for

flour, though millers said it injured their bolting-cloth to sift

the corn meal through it; yet nearly every household, in sending

its grist to be ground, would order a portion of the meal to be

bolted for use as flour. Such bolted meal, when sifted through a

thin muslin cloth and mixed up with scalding water to make it more

viscid and adhesive, was as easily moulded into pie crust with the

aid of the rolling-pin as the pure flour. Nice muffins and waffles

were made of bolted meal, and we also made a very nice cake of the

same and our home-made brown sugar.

All the moist and marshy places in the fields that had hitherto

been thought fit for naught as to the growing of farm products,

were utilized for rice and sugar-cane patches, and were found to

yield plentifully. Some people, not having dank or moist spots

suitable for rice on their farms, planted rice on the uplands, and

were surprised to find they had an average yield with those who had

planted the moist spots; and thus it has come about that even now

in the South rice is planted on the uplands. Some few rude rice

mills were hastily put up for stripping the coarse brown husks from

the rice, but as they were distant from most of the planters in our

settlement, wooden mortars had to be temporarily improvised. A tree

of proper size would be cut down; from the stock a length suitable

would be cut or sawed; a cavity would be hollowed with an adze in

the centre of the block endwise. For the want of better polishing

tools the cavity would be made smooth by burning with fire. The

charred surface was then scraped off and made even, the hollow

cleared free of all coal dust, and the pestle, made, perhaps, from

a bough of the same tree, completed the primitive rice mill. Rough

rice pounded in such a mortar and winnowed by the wind was clean

and white. The only objection to it was that it was more splintered

than if it had gone through a better mill.

Mills had also to be erected for grinding sugar-cane and the

sorghum-cane, as some sorghum was raised in southern Alabama. In

our settlement only the “green” and “ribbon” cane were grown,

which, like the cereals, were never cultivated before the war. What

cane had been grown was in patches owned by slaves, and for the

saccharine juice alone. Wooden cylinders had to be used, as those

of iron were not easily obtained. With these cylinders all of the

juice could not be expressed, but our farmers contented themselves

with the thought that there was no great loss after all, as their

swine could draw from the crushed cane all the juice that was left

before it was hauled to fill ditches and gullies. In case one was

so fortunate as to secure a sugar mill with iron cylinders, it

used to go the rounds of its immediate vicinity, as the portable

threshers did. First one and then another of the neighbors would

use it till their crop of cane was ground and made into syrup

and sugar. The furnaces for sugar and syrup making were built of

rocks, if bricks were not convenient. They held one or two kettles,

according to the quantity of cane to be ground and of juice to be

boiled. A couple or more of long wooden troughs hollowed from trees

were necessary for containing the syrup when boiled to the proper

degree of density, before turning into the barrels. That designed

for sugar, after being turned into the troughs, was usually beaten

with wooden paddles, and dipper after dipper was filled with the

thick syrup and poured back into the sugar trough, till all was

changed into sugar. Of course there were mishaps now and then, as

evaporators could not be had, and the planters were not experts in

syrup and sugar making. I remember one gentleman, whose “green”

and “ribbon” cane had been exceptionally fine for the season, who

had engaged a man who was said to be something of an expert to

supervise his sugar boiling. The owner of the cane was to make

his own syrup unaided; yet his very first boiling of syrup, when

run into the trough and stirred back and forth with the wooden

paddles to cool, began to crystallize into grains of sugar, and on

turning into the barrel was soon solid, compact, light-brown sugar,

without further stir, and was his finest sugar, though the one who

supervised, when it came his turn to make the sugar, tried hard

to excel that made by the merest accident; but none of his was so

light of color or so free of dripping. Another had boiled his juice

too much for either sugar or syrup, so that he had a whole barrel

full of dark-brown solid candy, which had to be chipped out with

a hatchet. The syrup that was made later, as the war went on, was

all that could be desired,--thick, clear, and pure. The sugar was

necessarily brown, as appliances for refining at that time could

not be had. The planters would place smooth oak splits and switches

in the barrels of sugar, and just the length of the barrel, to

aid the dripping, and to better free the sugar from moisture.

It was not uncommon to see planters, when they called upon each

other, draw from their pockets small packages wrapped in our own

manufactured brown paper, which packages contained samples of their

make of sugar. These they carried about with them and compared with

the sugar made by others.

III.

A woman whose husband and one son were in our army had raised, with

the help of her few slaves, among other farm products, a surplus of

watermelons. The season had been propitious, and her melons were

large, well flavored, and very juicy. So one day she determined

to make a trial of the juice of the watermelons for syrup. She

gathered those which were thought to be ripe enough for use,

prepared a large tub with a sack hanging over it, sliced up the

melons, and scraped all the meat and juice into the sack. From what

dripped into the tub through the sack when pressed, she managed to

get several gallons of bright juice, which she placed for boiling

in her large iron kettle--generally known in the country as the

“wash pot,” and which was always left out of doors, in a shady,

convenient place, for washing clothes, making soap, or drying up

lard in hog-killing time. She built her fire, boiled the juice

slowly, carefully taking off all the scum, and was rewarded with

syrup of a flavor as fine, or even finer, than that made from the

sugar-cane. Flushed with success, she essayed sugar, also, from

watermelon juice, and cakes as nice as those from the sap of the

maple were the outcome. The balance of her melon crop was converted

into sugar and syrup.

Inasmuch as syrup and sugar had to be placed in barrels,

barrel-making was another industry that was forced upon the South.

Soon several coopers’ shops were built here and there, and it

seemed queer enough for us to have home-made barrels, casks, tubs,

and piggins. They were manufactured of oak, pine, cypress, and

juniper. Those in use for syrup or sugar were generally of oak, as

it was thought they gave a more pleasant taste to their contents.

The _Palma christi_, or castor-oil plant, being indigenous to the

South and growing most luxuriantly in the wild state, was soon

cultivated in patches near our dwellings, for the beans, from which

castor oil as thick and transparent as that sold by druggists was

extracted. As we had no rollers to crush the beans, rude mortars

were resorted to, in which they were well crushed, the oil passing,

as it was expressed, through an orifice in the side of the mortar,

near its base. Water was then added to the oil, and the whole was

boiled, or rather raised to the boiling point, which caused all the

impurities to rise to the top, when it was strained and the oil

dipped from the top of the water. An uncle of Mrs. G---- had made

some castor oil. He brought her a bottle, and when shown me I could

scarce believe it home-made, as there was no apparent difference

between this bottle of oil so produced in southern Alabama and that

which we had been wont to buy before the blockade.

Shoes and leather soon became very high-priced, bringing home to

us the fact that we had indeed entered on troublous times. All

our planters were reduced to the necessity of tanning leather for

their own use, and also in order to aid in supplying the soldiers

of our Confederacy with shoes. The home process of tanning among

the lesser planters was perhaps as crude as that practiced in the

earliest ages; for although there were many rude tanneries set in

operation during the war, and still ruder modes of grinding the red

oak bark for the vats were in vogue in some places, planters on a

small scale did not care to carry the few hides they had the long

distances to the tanyards. With them the question was how best to

tan at their homes, and as the necessity was urgent, it was not

long ere they had devised a plan.

The hides were placed in a trough or barrel and covered with water,

in which a small quantity of weak lye, that was made to answer the

purpose of lime, had been mingled. When the hides had soaked the

required length of time, they were taken from the trough, and with

but little difficulty and labor the hair was removed and they were

ready for the next stage of the process. A pit, of size suitable

for the number of hides to be tanned, was dug in the ground near a

spring or stream of running water; the bottom and sides were lined

with boards riven from the stock of a tree; the seams were caulked

tightly with lint cotton, to prevent the tan-ooze from escaping.

Then the red oak bark, which had been peeled in long strips from

the trees, having arrived, a layer of the bark was placed smooth

and even in the bottom of the vat, a layer of hides was stretched

over the bark, another layer of bark was put in position, then

another of hides, and so on, until the rough vat was filled with

hides and bark,--the bark being used just as it came from the

trees. Water was poured into the vat, and its contents were left

to steep from three to six months, according to the fancy of the

tanner. I heard many planters say they had never bought better

leather than that which they had tanned by this simple process.

Of course, when neighbor called upon neighbor, the leather that

was home-tanned used to be displayed. They would double it over

and over again, and often pronounce it the best they ever saw. It

made a soft, peculiar noise when pressed with the hands, and was

very pliant and supple, answering every purpose for which leather

is adapted. Its chief usefulness lay in its furnishing shoes for

our soldiers and for those at home, but gear of all kinds used on

plantations was mended or made anew from this product; harnesses

for farm use or for equipping army saddles or ambulance trains

were manufactured and repaired out of home-tanned leather. And to

meet our pressing wants, the hides of horses, mules, hogs, and dogs

were all utilized.

One fall, while I was staying at Mr. G----’s, he lost many fine

fattening hogs with the cholera. These hogs weighed from two to

three or four hundred pounds apiece. It had been his habit to

butcher every winter from eighty to a hundred fine porkers. This

fall the cholera epidemic had been so fatal that there was scarcely

a planter in all the neighborhood but lost a great many swine. They

would feed at night and seem to be perfectly well, and be dead by

morning; or seemingly well in the morning, and dead by night. As

this happened in war time, the loss was felt heavily.

We needed leather so badly that the hogs were flayed as soon as

dead, and their hides were tanned. The best and heaviest leather

was used for making shoes for the slaves, as their work was out of

doors as a rule, and heavy brogans could not be bought. But leather

from the hides of swine fell to our lot also, for winter shoes;

and many other white families were obliged to use it. I remember

very plainly when one of Mr. G----’s daughters and I first wore

swine-skin shoes. They were made of leather which Mr. G---- himself

had had tanned, and, except that the pores were very large and wide

apart, it looked like ordinary leather. We had consented with some

reluctance to have these shoes made, for, although we were willing

to immolate ourselves on the altar of our Southern Confederacy,

it had fallen rather severely on us to think that we must wear

hog-skin shoes! They were made, however, at a cost of ten dollars

a pair, we furnishing the leather from which to make them. But

swine-skin leather was very extensible, and our shoes spread out

quite flat by the time we had worn them a day or so. This was more

than we could endure, so we took them off, and one of the negro

house-girls came into possession of two more pair of shoes, while

we stepped back into shoes made of homespun.

As no shoe-blacking or polish could be bought during the blockade,

each family improvised its own blacking, which was soot and oil

of some variety (either cotton-seed, ground peas, or oil of

compressed lard) mixed together. The shoes would be well painted

with the mixture of soot and oil, with brushes made of the bristles

of swine. Then a thin paste made of flour, bolted meal, or starch,

was applied all over the blackened shoe with another brush, which

paste, when dry, gave the shoe as bright and glossy an appearance

as if “shined” by the best of bootblacks. Planters were very

careful in killing their hogs to save a good supply of bristles,

from which shapely brushes were manufactured.

The obtaining of salt became extremely difficult when the war had

cut off our supply. This was true especially in regions remote

from the sea-coast and border States, such as the interior of

Alabama and Georgia. Here again we were obliged to have recourse

to whatever expedient ingenuity suggested. All the brine left in

troughs and barrels, where pork had been salted down, was carefully

dipped up, boiled down, and converted into salt again. In some

cases the salty soil under old smoke-houses was dug up and placed

in hoppers, which resembled backwoods ash-hoppers, made for

leaching ashes in the process of soap-manufacture. Water was then

poured upon the soil, the brine which percolated through the hopper

was boiled down to the proper point, poured into vessels, and set

in the sun, which by evaporation completed the rude process. Though

never of immaculate whiteness, the salt which resulted from these

methods served well enough for all our purposes, and we accepted it

without complaining.

Before the war there were in the South but few cotton mills. These

were kept running night and day, as soon as the Confederate army

was organized, and we were ourselves prevented by the blockade

from purchasing clothing from the factories at the North, or

clothing imported from France or England. The cotton which grew in

the immediate vicinity of the mills kept them well supplied with

raw material. Yet notwithstanding the great push of the cotton

mills, they proved totally inadequate, after the war began, to

our vast need for clothing of every kind. Every household now

became a miniature factory in itself, with its cotton, cards,

spinning-wheels, warping-frames, looms, and so on. Wherever one

went, the hum of the spinning-wheel and the clang of the batten of

the loom was borne on the ear.

Great trouble was experienced, in the beginning, to find dyes with

which to color our stuffs; but in the course of time, both at the

old mills and at smaller experimental factories which were run

entirely by hand, barks, leaves, roots, and berries were found

containing coloring properties. I was well acquainted with a

gentleman in southwestern Georgia who owned a small cotton mill,

and who, when he wanted coloring substances, used to send his

wagons to the woods and freight them with a shrub known as myrtle,

that grew teeming in low moist places near his mill. This myrtle

yielded a nice gray for woolen goods.

That the slaves might be well clad, the owners kept, according

to the number of slaves owned, a number of negro women carding

and spinning, and had looms running all the time. Now and then

a planter would be so fortunate as to secure a bale or more of

white sheeting and osnaburgs from the cotton mills, in exchange

for farm products, which would be quite a lift, and give a little

breathing-spell from the almost incessant whirr, hum, and clang of

the spinning-wheel and loom.

Wide unbleached sheeting was also used for making dresses, and when

dyed a deep solid color and tastefully made up the effect was quite

handsome. On one occasion, when Mr. G---- had been fortunate in

getting a bale of unbleached factory sheeting, Mrs. G---- gave to

me, to her two oldest daughters, and a niece of hers, who was as

one of the family, enough of the sheeting to make each one of us a

dress. We had to hie us to the woods for coloring matter, to dye as

each one pleased.

I have often joined with neighbors, when school hours for the

day were over, in gathering roots, barks, leaves, twigs, sumach

berries, and walnuts, for the hulls, which dyed wool a beautiful

dark brown. Such was the variety we had to choose from, to dye

our cloth and thread. We used to pull our way through the deep

tangled woods, by thickly shaded streams, through broad fields,

and return laden with the riches of the Southern forest! Not

infrequently clusters of grapes mingled with our freight of dyes.

The pine-tree’s roots furnished a beautiful dye, approximating

very closely to garnet, which color I chose for the sheeting for

my dress. A strong decoction of the roots of the pine-tree was

used. Copperas of our own production was used as the mordant. A

cask or some small vessel was set convenient to the dwelling-house

and partly filled with water, in which a small quantity of salt

and vinegar had been mingled; then pieces of rusty, useless iron,

such as plows too much worn to be used again, rusty broken rails,

old horse-shoes, and bits of old chains were picked up and cast

into the cask. The liquid copperas was always ready, and a very

good substance we found it to fix colors in cloth or thread. The

sheeting for the dress was folded smoothly and basted slightly so

as to keep the folds in place. It was first thoroughly soaked in

warm soapsuds, then dipped into the dye, and afterwards into a

vessel containing liquid lye from wood-ashes; then it went again

into the dye, then the lye, and so on till the garnet color was the

required shade. By varying the strength of the solution any shade

desirable could be obtained. My garnet-colored dress of unbleached

sheeting was often mistaken for worsted delaine.

Many of the planters in southern Alabama began to grow wool on

quite a large scale, as the war went on and no woolen goods could

be had. All the woolen material that could be manufactured at the

cotton mills was used to clothe our soldiers, so that all the

varied kinds of woolen goods that hitherto had been used with

us had now to be of home hand-make. In this we achieved entire

success. All kinds of woolen goods--flannels both colored and

white, plaids of bright colors, which we thought equal to the famed

Scotch plaids; balmorals, which were then in fashion--were woven,

with grave or gay borders as suited our fancy. Woolen coverlets and

blankets were also manufactured. The woolen blankets were at first

woven with the warp of cotton thread, but a woman of our settlement

improved on that by weaving some blankets on the common house loom,

both warp and woof of wool, spun by her own hands. The borders

were bright red and blue, of texture soft and yielding; they were

almost equal to those woven at a regular woolen mill. The process

of weaving all-wool blankets with warp and woof hand-spun was

quite tedious, yet it was accomplished. Various kinds of twilled

woolen cloth were also woven. In weaving coverlets, the weaver had

the “draught” before her, to guide her in tramping the pedals and

throwing the design of flower, vine, leaf, square, or diamond on

the right side. Beautiful carpets also were made on the same plan

as coverlets.

Many of the planters, after the shearing of their sheep, used to

carry the wool to the nearest cotton mill and have it carded into

rolls, to facilitate the making of woolen cloth; and often large

quantities of lint cotton were hauled to the factories, to be

carded into rolls to be spun at home. But carding rolls by common

hand-cards was a rather slow and tiresome process.

IV.

There was some pleasant rivalry as to who should be the most

successful in producing the brightest and clearest tinge of color

on thread or cloth. Most of the women of southern Alabama had small

plats of ground for cultivating the indigo bush, for making “indigo

blue,” or “indigo mud,” as it was sometimes called. The indigo weed

also grew abundantly in the wild state in our vicinage. Those who

did not care to bother with indigo cultivation used to gather, from

the woods, the weed in the wild state when in season. Enough of

the blue was always made either from the wild or cultivated indigo

plant. We used to have our regular “indigo churnings,” as they

were called. When the weed had matured sufficiently for making the

blue mud, which was about the time the plant began to flower, the

plants were cut close to the ground, our steeping vats were closely

packed with the weed, and water enough to cover the plant was

poured in. The vat was then left eight or nine days undisturbed for

fermentation, to extract the dye. Then the plant was rinsed out,

so to speak, and the water in the vat was churned up and down with

a basket for quite a while; weak lye was added as a precipitate,

which caused the indigo particles held in solution to fall to the

bottom of the vat; the water was poured off, and the “mud” was

placed in a sack and hung up to drip and dry. It was just as clear

and bright a blue as if it had passed through a more elaborate

process.

The woods, as well as being the great storehouse for all our

dye-stuffs, were also our drug stores. The berries of the

dogwood-tree were taken for quinine, as they contained the

alkaloid properties of cinchona and Peruvian bark. A soothing

and efficacious cordial for dysentery and similar ailments was

made from blackberry roots; but ripe persimmons, when made into

a cordial, were thought to be far superior to blackberry roots.

An extract of the barks of the wild cherry, dogwood, poplar, and

wahoo trees was used for chills and agues. For coughs and all lung

diseases a syrup made with the leaves and roots of the mullein

plant, globe flower, and wild-cherry tree bark was thought to be

infallible. Of course the castor-bean plant was gathered in the

wild state in the forest, for making castor oil.

Many also cultivated a few rows of poppies in their garden to make

opium, from which our laudanum was created; and this at times

was very needful. The manner of extracting opium from poppies

was of necessity crude, in our hedged-around situation. It was,

indeed, simple in the extreme. The heads or bulbs of the poppies

were plucked when ripe, the capsules pierced with a large-sized

sewing-needle, and the bulbs placed in some small vessel (a cup

or saucer would answer) for the opium gum to exude and to become

inspissated by evaporation. The soporific influence of this drug

was not excelled by that of the imported article.

Bicarbonate of soda, which had been in use for raising bread before

the war, became “a thing of the past” soon after the blockade

began; but it was not long ere some one found out that the ashes of

corn-cobs possessed the alkaline property essential for raising

dough. Whenever “soda” was needed, corn was shelled, care being

taken to select all the red cobs, as they were thought to contain

more carbonate of soda than white cobs. When the cobs were burned

in a clean swept place, the ashes were gathered up and placed

in a jar or jug, and so many measures of water were poured in,

according to the quantity of ashes. When needed for bread-making, a

teaspoonful or tablespoonful of the alkali was used to the measure

of flour or meal required.

Another industry to which the need of the times gave rise was

the making of pottery, which, although not food or clothing, was

indispensable. Of course, our earthenware was rough, coarse, and

brown; and its enameling would have caused a smile of disdain from

the ancient Etruscans. Nevertheless, we found our brown-glazed

plates, cups and saucers, washbowls and pitchers, and milk crocks

exceedingly convenient and useful as temporary expedients, as no

tin pans could be had; and we were thankful that we could make this

homely ware.

All in our settlement learned to card, spin, and weave, and that

was the case with all the women of the South when the blockade

closed us in. Now and then, it is true, a steamer would run the

blockade, but the few articles in the line of merchandise that

reached us served only as a reminder of the outside world and of

our once great plenty, now almost forgotten, and also more forcibly

to remind us that we must depend upon our own ingenuity to supply

the necessities of existence. Our days of novitiate were short.

We soon became very apt at knitting and crocheting useful as well

as ornamental woolen notions, such as capes, sacques, vandykes,

shawls, gloves, socks, stockings, and men’s suspenders. The

clippings of lambs’ wool were especially used by us for crocheting

or knitting shawls, gloves, capes, sacques, and hoods. Our needles

for such knitting were made of seasoned hickory or oakwood a foot

long, or even longer. Lambs’ wool clippings, when carded and spun

fine by hand and dyed bright colors, were almost the peer of the

zephyr wool now sold. To have the hanks spotted or variegated, they

were tightly braided or plaited, and so dyed; when the braids

were unfolded a beautiful dappled color would result. Sometimes

corn husks were wrapped around the hanks at regular or irregular

spaces and made fast with strong thread, so that when placed in the

dye the incased parts, as was intended, would imbibe little or no

dye, and when knit, crocheted, or woven would present a clouded or

dappled appearance. Handsome mittens were knit or crocheted of the

same lambs’ wool dyed jet black, gray, garnet, or whatever color

was preferred; a bordering of vines, with green leaves and rosebuds

of bright colors, was deftly knitted in on the edge and top of the

gloves. Various designs of flowers or other patterns were used for

gloves, and were so skillfully knitted in that they formed the

exact representation of the copy from which they were taken. For

the bordering of capes, shawls, gloves, hoods, and sacques the wool

yarn was dyed red, blue, black, and green. Of course, intermediate

colors were employed in some cases. The juice of poke berries dyed

a red as bright as aniline, but this was not very good for wash

stuffs. A strong decoction of the bark of the hickory-tree made a

clear, bright green on wool, when alum could be had as a mordant;

sometimes there were those who, by some odd chance, happened to

have a bit of alum.

There grew in some spots in the woods, though very sparsely, a weed

about a foot and a half high, called “the queen’s delight,” which

dyed a jet black on wool. We have frequently gone all of two miles

from our home, and, after a wide range of the woods, would perhaps

secure only a small armful of this precious weed. We did not wonder

at the name, it was so scarce and rare, as well as the only one

of all the weeds, roots, bark, leaves, or berries that would dye

jet black. The indigo blue of our make would dye blue of any shade

required, and the hulls of walnuts a most beautiful brown; so that

we were not lacking for bright and deep colors for borderings.

Here again a pleasant rivalry arose, as to who could form the most

unique bordering for capes, shawls, and all such woolen knit or

crocheted clothing. There were squares, diamonds, crosses, bars,

and designs of flowers formed in knitting and in crocheting.

We were our own wool-sorters, too, and after the shearing had first

choice of the fleeces. All the fine, soft, silky locks of wool were

selected for use in knitting and crocheting.

Our shoes, particularly those of women and children, were made of

cloth, or knit. Some one had learned to knit slippers, and it was

not long before most of the women of our settlement had a pair of

slippers on the knitting needles. They were knit of our homespun

thread, either cotton or wool, which was, for slippers, generally

dyed a dark brown, gray, or black. When taken off the needles, the

slippers or shoes were lined with cloth of suitable texture. The

upper edges were bound with strips of cloth, of color to blend with

the hue of the knit work. A rosette was formed of some stray bits

of ribbon, or scraps of fine bits of merino or silk, and placed on

the uppers of the slippers; then they were ready for the soles.

We explored the seldom-visited attic and lumber-room, and

overhauled the contents of old trunks, boxes, and scrap-bags for

pieces of cassimere, merino, broadcloth, or other heavy fine

twilled goods, to make our Sunday shoes, as we could not afford

to wear shoes of such fine stuff every day; home-woven jeans and

heavy, plain cloth had to answer for every-day wear. When one was

so fortunate as to get a bolt of osnaburgs, scraps of that made

excellent shoes when colored. What is now called the “base-ball

shoe” always reminds me of our war-time colored osnaburgs, but ours

did not have straps of leather like those which cross the base-ball

shoe. Our slippers and shoes which were made of fine bits of cloth,

cost us a good deal of labor in binding and stitching with colors

and thread to blend with the material used, before they were sent

to the shoemaker to have them soled.

Sometimes we put on the soles ourselves by taking wornout shoes,

whose soles were thought sufficiently strong to carry another pair

of uppers, ripping the soles off, placing them in warm water to

make them more pliable and to make it easier to pick out all the

old stitches, and then in the same perforations stitching our knit

slippers or cloth-made shoes. We also had to cut out soles for

shoes from our home-tanned leather, with the sole of an old shoe

as our pattern, and with an awl perforate the sole for sewing on

the upper. I was often surprised at the dexterity with which we

could join soles and uppers together, the shoe being reversed

during the stitching, and when finished turned right side out

again; and I smile even now when I remember how we used to hold our

self-made shoes at arm’s length and say, as they were inspected:

“What is the blockade to us, so far as shoes are concerned, when we

can not only knit the uppers, but cut the soles and stitch them on?

Each woman and girl her own shoemaker; away with bought shoes; we

want none of them!” But alas, we really knew not how fickle a few

months would prove that we were.

Our sewing-thread was of our own make. Spools of “Coats’” thread,

which was universally used in the South before the war, had long

been forgotten. For very fine sewing-thread great care had to be

used in drawing the strand of cotton evenly, as well as finely.

It was a wearisome task, and great patience had to be exercised,

as there was continual snapping of the fine hand-spun thread.

From broaches of such spun sewing-thread balls of the cotton

were wound from two to three strands double, according as coarse

or fine thread was needed. The ball was then placed in a bowl

of warm soapsuds and the thread twisted on to a bobbin of corn

husks placed on the spindle of the wheel. During the process of

twisting the thread a miniature fountain would be set playing from

the thread as it twirled upon the spindle. Bunch thread from the

cotton mill, number twelve, made very strong sewing-thread, but

little could we afford of that; it was exceedingly scarce. When the

web of cloth, especially that of factory bunch thread, had been

woven as closely up as the sley and harness would permit the warp

opening for the shuttle to pass through, the ends of the weaver’s

threads, or thrums, generally a yard long when taken from around

the large cloth beam, would be cut from the cloth and made into

sewing-thread. We spent many evenings around the fire, if winter

time, or lamp if summer weather, drawing the threads singly from

the bunch of thrums and then tying together two or three strands,

as the thread was to be coarse or fine. It was also wound into

balls and twisted in the same manner as other sewing-thread. The

ball would be full of knots, but a good needleful of thread,

perhaps more, could always be had between the knots.

There were rude frames in most people’s yards for making rope out

of cotton thread spun very coarse, and quite a quantity of such

rope was made on these roperys. A comical incident occurred at one

of the rope-makings which I attended. One afternoon, I had gone out

in the yard with several members of the household, to observe the

method of twisting the long coil of rope by a windlass attached to

one end of the frame, after it had been run off the broaches on to

the frame. Two of the smaller girls were amusing themselves running

back and forth under the rope while it was being slowly twisted,

now and again giving it a tap with their hands as they ducked under

it, when, just as it was drawn to its tightest tension, it parted

from the end of the frame opposite the windlass, and in its curved

rebound caught one of the little girls by the hair of her head.

There was “music in the air” for some little time, for it was quite

a task to free her hair from the hard twisted coils of rope.

Our hats and bonnets were of our own manufacture, for those we

had at the beginning of the war had been covered anew, made over,

turned, and changed till none of the original remained. As we had

no “flowers of sulphur” to bleach our white straw bonnets and

hats, we colored those we had with walnut hulls, and made them

light or dark brown, as we wished. Then we ripped up our tarlatan

party-dresses of red, white, blue, or buff, some all gold and

silver bespangled, to trim hats with. Neighbor would divide with

neighbor the tarlatan for trimming purposes, and some would go

quite a distance for only enough to trim a hat. For the plumes

of our hats or bonnets the feathers of the old drake answered

admirably, and were often plucked, as many will remember, for that

very purpose. Quaker or Shaker bonnets were also woven by the women

of Alabama out of the bulrushes that grew very tall in marshy

places. These rushes were placed in the opening of the threads of

warp by hand, and were woven the same as if the shuttle had passed

them through. Those the width of the warp were always used. The

bonnets were cut in shape and lined with tarlatan.

The skirt of the Shaker was made of single sleyed cloth, as we

called it. In common woven heavy cloth two threads of warp were

passed through the reeds of the sley. For the skirts of our

bonnets we wanted the cloth soft and light, hence only one thread

was passed through the reeds, and that was lightly tapped by the

batten; it was then soft and yielding. When the cloth was dyed with

willow bark, which colored a beautiful drab, we thought our bonnets

equal to those we had bought in days gone by. There was variety

enough of material to make hats for both men and women, palmetto

taking the lead for hats for Sunday wear. The straw of oats or

wheat and corn husks were braided and made into hats. Hats which

were almost everlasting, we used to think, were made of pine straw.

Hats were made of cloth also. I remember one in particular of gray

jeans, stitched in small diamonds with black silk thread. It was as

perfect a hat as was ever moulded by the hatter, but the oddness

of that hat consisted in its being stitched on the sewing-machine

with silk thread. All sewing-machines in our settlement were at a

standstill during the period of the war, as our home-made thread

was not suited to machines, and all sewing had to be done by hand.

We became quite skilled in making designs of palmetto and straw

braiding and plaiting for hats. Fans, baskets, and mats we made of

the braided palmetto and straw also. Then there was the “bonnet

squash,” known also as the “Spanish dish-rag,” that was cultivated

by some for making bonnets and hats for women and children. Such

hats presented a fine appearance, but they were rather heavy. Many

would make the frame for their bonnets or hats, then cover it with

the small white feathers and down of the goose, color bright red

with the juice of poke berries, or blue with indigo mud, some of

the larger feathers, and on a small wire form a wreath or plume

with bright-colored and white feathers blended together; or, if

no wire was convenient, a fold or two of heavy cloth, or paper

doubled, was used to sew the combination of feathers on for

wreath, plume, or rosette. Tastefully arranged, this made a hat or

bonnet by no means rustic looking.

V.

Willow wickerwork came in as a new industry with us. We learned to

weave willow twigs into baskets of many shapes and sizes.

A woman of our settlement wove of willow switches a beautiful and

ornate body for her baby carriage. As much, she said, to show what

she could make out of willow withes, as for the real use of her

baby.

The switches were gathered when the willows were flowering, and

stripped of bark and leaves; what was not wanted for immediate

use was put by in bundles, to be used in our leisure hours. When

placed in warm water the withes were soon as flexible as if freshly

gathered and peeled, and were as easily woven into varied kinds of

wickerwork.

Mrs. G---- had a flock of sixty or seventy head of geese. A large

stream of clear water ran within a stone’s throw of the rear of the

dwelling, through what was the main pasture-lot for the geese.

Clear pools of water, caused by the sudden bend of the stream,

rocks, or perhaps a fallen tree, were formed as the stream wound

through the pasture-lot, in which the geese were nearly all the

time swimming. This kept their feathers snowy white. Wishing a

finer grade of fans than we had made of braided palmetto or woven

rushes or pasteboard, it was not long ere we had learned to put the

secondary wing-feathers of geese to that use. When the feathers

were “ripe” we would pluck them, being very careful in the plucking

to string on a strong thread the feathers one by one as they were

taken out. All the right wing-feathers were placed on one string,

the left wing-feathers on another separate string, so that when we

were ready to arrange the feathers for making fans, each feather

would be in its proper place, just as drawn from the wing of the

goose, and would therefore have the fitting curve. The secondary

feathers of both wings were used to make one fan. Its handles were

of cedar or pine wood and were sometimes made on the “turner’s

machine,” but oftener we whittled them out of cedar or pine wood

ourselves. They were always covered with scraps of velvet, silk,

cassimere, or merino, and bits of old faded ribbon dyed some bright

color. We soon became adepts in the art of making fans out of the

wing-feathers of geese, and beside those for our own use we made

and sold many in the city of Eufaula for ten, fifteen, and twenty

dollars apiece.

A sister of Mrs. G----, who lived some little distance from us, and

who owned a large flock of pea-fowls, often favored her sister with

the more valuable dark olive-green wing-feathers of her magnificent

birds, and they made superb fans. I was remembered by Mrs. G----,

and was given a select pair of wing-feathers. I gave my best skill

to this fan, for it was to be a present to my mother. The handle

I covered with a piece of dark green silk velvet for which I

exchanged a scrap of silk of a different color, so as to have an

exact blending of the feathers and silk velvet for covering the

handle. On either side where I had joined the handle and feathers,

I placed a rosette made of the small green and blue variegated

feathers that adorn the neck and breast of the pea-fowl. Two

buttons cut out of pasteboard and covered with a bit of the silk

velvet, saved from covering the handle, were placed in the centre

of the rosettes. I think it would have been difficult to have

singled out that fan as not imported. I was offered thirty dollars

for it as soon as it was completed. One would scarcely believe how

beautiful our snow-white fans of geese feathers were, with their

large rosettes on either side, made of the blue and green small

feathers that grace the neck of the peacock. We made fans also

of gray goose feathers, and from feathers out of turkeys’ wings

and tails were made strong substantial fans, for every-day use in

summer.

An amusing incident happened one day while we were making fans of

the feathers of the geese. We had been told by some one that if we

would tie a strip of scarlet cloth around a goose’s neck, it would

fly away and never return. Late one afternoon the oldest daughter

of the house and I were strolling all alone in the pasture-lot

where the geese were feeding on the luxuriant grass. At sight of

the sleek, glossy flock feeding _en masse_, the impulse arose on

the instant to put to the test the romantic hearsay, and we quickly

caught a goose of snowy whiteness. My companion then took off her

crimson silk belt (a relic of ante-bellum days). We tied it around

the anser’s neck, kneeling on the soft carpet of grass, one holding

the goose by the wings, while the other adjusted the belt; then we

loosed it, expecting to see the spread of wings that was to bear

it from our sight forever. But nothing of the kind happened. It

stepped cautiously around with its neck gracefully curved as if

endeavoring to divine the mystery of the crimson streamer, while

the entire flock without a single exception set up a hissing and

cackling that was almost deafening, and with necks extended began

to chase the goose with the scarlet pennant. The loud cackling

of the flock awoke the quiet of the house, and soon a negro girl

came running, sent by her mistress, to see what was disturbing the

geese. The legend had proved false; but we wondered not, as we

retraced our steps, that the loud cackling of a flock of geese in

Rome betrayed the presence of the Gauls who were about to storm the

citadel.

Mrs. G---- promised her two older daughters, her niece, and

myself a new home-woven, homespun dress, just so soon as we

should jointly finish the make-up of the slaves’ fall and winter

clothing, which we joined hands forthwith in cutting out. Two suits

apiece of heavy goods were made for their winter wear, and two

suits apiece of material not so heavy for their spring and summer

wear. It usually took from six to eight weeks of cutting out and

sewing to get all the slaves into their new garments. We were ever

willing to lend our aid in the make-up of the negroes’ clothing,

yet the promise of a new homespun dress, to be dyed and woven

as best pleased us four, aroused our latent energy, and we soon

completed the task without once knowing fatigue. Then our homespun

dresses came to the front. There was much consulting, advising,

and draughting by the four, before we had decided as to the color,

check, or stripe we should have our dresses dyed or woven. I well

remember the color, stripe, and check--together with the spangles

that were woven in the meshes of thread--that we each made choice

of. The warp was the same for all four dresses,--nearly solid drab,

with the exception of a narrow stripe of white and blue threads

in a group, for every twelve or fourteen threads of drab, running

parallel to each other the whole length of the warp. The drab was

dyed with the bark of the willow-tree. The hanks of thread for the

woof of my dress were closely plaited and dyed a deep, clear blue

with our home-made indigo. When woven it presented the appearance

of “cirro-cumulus” clouds. The niece and one of the daughters

betook them to the garret to rummage amongst antique silk and

woolen garments much “the worse for wear.” Part of an old black

silk, and some red scraps of merino, and a remnant of an old blue

scarf, was what they decided upon as spangles for their dresses,

and both were to be just alike. The black silk and red and blue

were cut into narrow strips; the strips were again cut into bits

from a quarter to half an inch in length and woven in the meshes of

thread the whole length of their dresses.

The black, blue, and red bits of color were placed in by hand,

varying from an inch to two or three inches apart. Sometimes

the bits of bright color were placed in so as to form a square,

diamond, or cross; sometimes no order or method was heeded, but

they were placed in on the “crazy” plan; yet when all the tiny

bits had been placed in and when the material was made up into the

dress, it presented quite a spangled appearance. The other daughter

had hers woven of solid drab, of willow-bark dye, and with a narrow

stripe of blue and white running the length of it in the warp; and

this was just as pretty as the rest of our dresses, that had given

a deal of trouble.

Buttons for our dresses were our next consideration, and we had

quite a debate on this weighty subject, as our substitutes for

buttons and material for making them were many and varied. It was

something bewildering for us to determine finally what sort of

buttons we should adopt.

Rude machines were devised for making buttons of wood as the war

went on, and we were thrown more and more upon our own resources.

The buttons made of wood were of various sizes, and were strong and

lasting for heavy goods, especially the clothing for the slaves.

Sometimes we would get the wood buttons, polish them with a bit of

sandpaper, and varnish them with a little of the copal varnish

that happened to be on hand when the war began, and which was

being carefully husbanded; our buttons thus polished and varnished

exhibited some likeness to those we had been wont to buy in palmier

days. Many a household manufactured its own buttons. They were

made of cloth cut round, and of as many ply as was necessary for

firmness. Thick, heavy button-hole stitches were worked all around

the edge with thread coarser than the cloth of which the button was

made, and when these were stitched on firmly there was no worry

about the washerwoman’s breaking or washing them off.

Thread that we spun at home was used for making buttons. The

process was simple. A small reed, or, if that was wanting, a

large-sized broom-straw, could be used; around this the thread for

such buttons would be wound till of sufficient bulk; it was then

slid from the reed; the button-hole stitch was used here again, and

was thickly worked around the eyelet made by the reed; the eyelet

was crossed with thread stronger than that of which the button was

formed, for the purpose of attaching it to the garment. Persimmon

seeds were also used for buttons with very good success, for being

of such a tenacious and solid substance they could be put on

clothing that required washing. Very nice buttons were also shaped

out of pine bark, and were covered or not, just as one liked, but

these were useless on garments for wash. The shell of the common

gourd was almost universally used at the South for buttons during

the period of the war; when covered with strong homespun cloth they

could stand washing. Pasteboard was also used to make buttons. We

have often cut in different shapes and sizes pasteboard and the

shell of the gourd for buttons. We would have them round, oval,

square, or diamond shaped, then cover neatly with cloth, with

scraps of silk, or with fine pieces of colored woolen goods, to

match whatever material was used for dress or basque.

Our pasteboard was made in our own homes. I smile even now when I

think of that crude process. We used old papers and worn garments

and a paste made of flour, or bolted meal sifted through fine

cloth. A paper was spread on a table, paste was spread evenly

and smoothly over the surface of the paper, a layer of cloth just

the width and length of the paper was laid on, another coating of

the paste followed, and so on, alternating with paper, paste, and

cloth, until the required thickness was reached; then with a hot

smoothing-iron the whole was pressed till perfectly dry, smooth,

and glossy, and we had pasteboard adapted for all household needs.

But to return to our buttons. They were made of drab thread, and

after we had thickly worked the button-hole stitch around the

eyelet, each took thread colored to blend with the warp and woof

and again lightly overcast the button, so that the drab showed only

as the background. The older daughter and I overcast ours with

blue thread; the other two overcast theirs with red thread. It was

then fashionable to place straps on the shoulder seams of ladies’

dresses, with generally from four to six buttons on the straps. We

placed straps on ours, trimmed with the buttons which we had made,

and they added not a little to the finish.

We had intended to wear our new homespuns to the village church

the Sunday after completing them. Perhaps there was the least bit

of vanity in our thoughts of how we should appear in church in our

first home-woven suits; palmetto hats that we had braided and made

with our own hands; slippers that we had knit, with soles cut out

of our home-tanned leather, and on which we had with our own hands

joined uppers and soles together. But

“The best laid schemes o’ mice and men

Gang aft a-gley.”

It was Saturday night, and our new dresses had been pressed with

the smoothing-iron all so nicely and hung on hooks alongside the

wall, so as to avoid any unnecessary creasing. All four of us hung

up the dresses with especial care just before we stepped into

the dining-room to have our suppers. “Eliza and Mary always have

something new and unusual in the make of their homespun dresses,”

thought we, “but they shall be surpassed to-morrow.” Both teacher

and pupils were at an age then when the heart is keenly desirous

for beauty and effect.

Uncle Ben was the negro man who drove the carriage, made fires

night and morning in all the rooms of the house, hoed the garden,

helped Aunt Phillis, the cook, who was his wife, and did chores

in general around the house and yard. Now it happened, as Aunt

Phillis afterward told us, that Ben had made his plans for that

very Sunday also. He was to meet by agreement with the negroes of

contiguous plantations in a swamp not far distant from the negro

quarter on Mr. G----’s plantation, to engage in games with cards.

Their masters of course knew naught of it, for they would not

have permitted it. In passing round the house and yard Uncle Ben

heard us say we were going to the village church that particular

Sunday, and that we should be sure to wear our new home-woven

suits. He knew he would have to drive the carriage, and I suppose

he thought if it had not been for our new dresses of the home-made

cloth, like as not we would not want to drive; for often we did not

use the carriage on Sundays, but preferred walking to the quiet

country church and Sabbath-school scarce a mile from my employer’s

residence.

While we were all at the supper-table that Saturday night, Ben, as

usual, was making the round of the rooms, replenishing all the

fires. He reached our room. There were the four dresses hanging

plain to view, and he thought of having to drive the carriage on

the morrow. One of the little girls had taken a bath and left a

large basin of water, with the sponge in it, near the fire-place.

Ben gathered up the sponge, pressed some of the water from it,

wiped the soot from the chimney’s back, and smeared our prided

homespun garments to his heart’s content! Then he carefully

disposed the skirts so as to effectually conceal the smut. It being

Saturday night, he expected that we could not have the much-soiled

dresses ready for Sunday’s wear, even if we should discover the

smut that evening.

When we went back to our rooms from the supper-table our first

glance was toward our much-valued dresses, which appeared to hang

just as we had left them. But before we had seated ourselves,

surprise was manifested at some large flakes of soot on the hearth

and floor and near to our precious garments. One of us called

attention to the sponge, which was almost black, floating in the

basin of water. The fire, beginning to burn anew, showed the

chimney’s back almost free of soot, and scarcely dry from the

sponge. Thinking no harm had befallen our homespuns, I casually

touched the folds of mine, when several flakes of soot fell to the

floor. Immediately I loosed wide the folds of the skirt, when, lo!

such a smut never before nor since have I seen, from waist line to

the hem, one whole width all begrimed with soot. The other girls

flew in a trice to their dresses, and as quickly unloosed the

folds of their skirts. Lo! behold, it was smut, smut, soot, soot,

broad and long! We knew in an instant it was Ben, for he was often

“contrary” about driving the carriage, especially if he had made

plans for his own amusement. Irritation and disappointment were

the prominent feelings at first, augmented by the thought that our

homespuns would never look decently again, but our vexed feelings

soon gave way to ringing laughter as we pictured to ourselves

Uncle Ben in the midst of smutting our dearly-prized garments.

He deserved punishment, surely, but beyond a good scolding no

correction was administered, although Aunt Phillis declared that

“Massa orter half kill Ben fur sicher mean trick.”

VI.

One blustering, drizzling March night at our home in Alabama

the two little daughters of Uncle Ben and Aunt Phillis, who,

since their early childhood had been brought up in Mr. G----’s

house as servants, came rushing into our room with the startling

intelligence that “Daddy’s arter mammy; he’s got an axe in his hand

and says he’s gwine ter kill her dis berry night.” Where Phillis

was hiding the little girls knew not. She was not in the kitchen,

nor in her cabin; neither had she come into the house to her master

and mistress. “Her’s dodgin’ ’round to keep out’en daddy’s way,”

the younger of Phillis’s girls declared. We all became deeply

interested in Aunt Phillis’s troubles, and dropped our knitting and

crocheting in severe disapprobation of the way in which Ben was

treating his helpmate, and our censure was the more emphasized when

we remembered the smutting he had given our dresses. The smaller

boys and girls of the household came also into our room to hear

Martha and Maria tell of Ben’s chasing Phillis around with the axe,

and soon we had ten all told around the fire, all gathered close

together.

The mournful echoing and reëchoing of the March wind as it rushed

past in fitful, heavy gusts, sometimes rattling the window panes,

then dying away through the dark pine forests that bounded one side

of the mansion, added not a little to our excited imaginings, and

we lapsed into a kind of dread silence, when all of a sudden an

unearthly scream came from just beneath our feet, it seemed, and we

sprang up instantly. Martha, who had recognized her mother’s voice,

at one bound passed through our room door to the rear hall door,

which she opened in a twinkling and Aunt Phillis flew into our

room. We slammed the door to on the instant, thinking Uncle Ben was

at his wife’s heels, and that one of us might catch the hurl of the

axe intended for Phillis. We braced our shoulders against the door

with all our strength, but Uncle Ben was prudent enough not to try

to force an entrance.

Mrs. G----, hearing our screams, imagined that the house had caught

fire. She sped to our room and reached the door just as we were in

the act of slamming it shut, so that it caught her left hand just

across the knuckles, and she was held all of a minute before she

could make herself heard in the great uproar. The third finger of

her left hand was badly crushed, and to this day shows the imprint

of that accident. Mr. G---- also hastened to our room, and, finding

that Ben was after Phillis with an axe, got his gun, and from the

rear hall door peered forth into the bleak night for Ben; but no

Ben could be seen or heard. When the Babel-like confusion of our

tongues had somewhat stilled, Aunt Phillis was called upon to

explain her piercing scream. She said that as she was putting her

kitchen in order for breakfast in the morning, Ben had told her he

was going to split her head open that very night with the axe, and

went to the wood-pile for the axe. Then Aunt Phillis slipped round

on the front colonnade next her mistress’ room, thinking if Ben

should come for her there she could quickly spring into that room.

From the front colonnade she saw Ben go into the kitchen axe in

hand. Not finding her there, he came out again and went to the rear

of the house. Although the night was dark, she imagined her dress

was of light enough color to betray her to Ben, should he come on

that side of the house. She then thought of our room, which, on

account of an incline in the yard toward the front gate, was not

raised as high off the ground by two or three feet as the rooms

on the front colonnade. Aunt Phillis reasoned that if she crept

under the house as far as our room, where a good fire was always

burning in the winter time, she could keep warm seated at the base

of the chimney, and if need be, sleep there all night, secure from

the fury of Ben. So she crawled as far down as our room, and made

herself as comfortable as the ground would permit, chuckling the

while at Ben’s prowling around for her in the raw March wind and

rain. She was the more content as she knew her two girls slept in

her mistress’s room. To use her own words, “I was gitten good and

warm ’gin the bricks o’ de chimbley, and feeling sort o’ sleepy,

soon was nodden. I jest happened to open my eyes as I raised my

head of a sudden, and bless God! dar was Ben crawlin’ right up to

me on his knees, wid de axe in his hand. I tell yer, I never knows

how I did got out fro’ under dar.”

Uncle Ben, despite his eccentricities, lives yet on the old

plantation with his mistress; but Mr. G---- died years gone by now.

No one bears any ill-will, I am sure, to venerable Uncle Ben, not

even those of us who well remember his misdeeds; and this episode

of those days of civil strife--an episode connected with the two

oldest daughters of Mrs. G----, her niece, and myself,--stands out

with clear distinctness, though more than twenty years have gone.

While knitting around the fireside one night, talking of what we

had done, and could yet accomplish, in industries called into

existence by the war and blockade, we agreed then and there that

each of us four could and would card and spin enough warp and woof

to weave a dress apiece. This proved a herculean task for us, for

at that time we barely knew how to card and spin. Mrs. G---- smiled

incredulously, we thought, but kindly promised to have the dresses

dyed and woven, in case we should card and spin them. The older

daughter and I elected to work together. I was to card and spin

eighteen yards of warp--nine yards of our wide heavy homespun being

then ample enough for one plain dress. Of course we used the same

style the whole four years of the war, in our secluded settlement;

not a fashion plate or “ladies’ magazine” did we see during that

entire period, so that we were but little troubled as to “latest

styles.” My companion in work was to card and spin eighteen yards

of filling. Similarly the other daughter and her cousin agreed

as to carding and spinning their warp and woof. We imposed the

number of cuts each should spin, agreeing that each should spin

one cut every night after our suppers, Saturday night excepted.

Every Saturday we were to card and were spin six cuts apiece, till

eighteen yards finished.

Inasmuch as it took about six cuts of our soft spun woof to

make one yard of thick heavy cloth, and about the same of hard

twisted warp, we were not long in numbering the weeks we should

be in spinning the four dresses; and of course, going to school

or teaching school, and spinning only nights and Saturdays, our

progress on the eighteen yards was necessarily slow. We thought,

however, that we would have them ready for the loom in ten weeks at

the farthest. Mrs. G---- said if we had them ready to dye and weave

in three or four months we would do well. But there were those who

could card and spin from one to two yards of cloth per day and do

it easily.

On a certain Monday evening, after we had supper, we began quite

merrily the carding and spinning for our four dresses, and made our

first cut of thread by the number of rolls we had carded and spun.

I remember that seventy rolls carded evenly and smoothly, if of

medium size, would reel one cut of thread. We invariably added two

or three rolls to the seventy for good measure. Our rolls at first

were oddly shaped, often evoking ridicule, but we soon learned to

mould them to perfection.

Our first Saturday to spin was looked forward to with great

expectations by the four, as six cuts were marked down for that

day. I smile even now, as memory wanders back over the tide of

years, to think how, all during the week preceding that Saturday,

I was resolving in my mind to far outstrip the number of cuts

imposed as our task. I kept this resolution all to myself, inwardly

chuckling at the grand surprise I was to give them all when the

day’s work should be finished; and I did give a surprise, too, but

in a way that was by no means pleasing to me.

The eagerly wished for Saturday dawned. Two spinning-wheels and

two pair of cotton-cards, with a basket of nice white lint cotton,

were set in our room before we had risen from bed, according to

orders delivered the evening previous; and as the sun rose the hum

of the spinning-wheels began, as we had the night before carded

enough rolls to supply us with material. Two would be carding rolls

and two spinning, and by alternating between carding rolls and

spinning, we rested, both as to standing and sitting, discoursing

meanwhile what color, or what variety of colors, these self-spun

dresses should be dyed; whether plain, plaid, checkered, or striped

they should be woven. Now and then the monotony would be enlivened

by snatches of song; merry laughs and jests went round; first

one and then another of us would cry out above the never-ceasing

humming of the wheels, “I know I shall have my six cuts by the time

the sun is down;” and I thought to myself, but did not give voice

to the words, “Shouldn’t wonder if I have seven cuts or more, when

the sun sets.”

Steadily all that Saturday was heard the tramp, tramp, as we

marched up and down the floor beside our spinning-wheels. We were

glad indeed to see the sun sinking like a huge ball of fire behind

the green-topped pines, plain to view from the windows of our room.

That evening the words, “The night cometh, when no man can work,”

had for us a new meaning. We were more joyful, I believe, as the

eve was drawing on, than we had been at dawn. We were wearied, but

were in a fever of anxiety to know the result of our steady labor.

So diligently had we applied ourselves that two carded and spun

while two were at dinner; there had been no cessation of our work.

When the sun set, the whirring ceased, and gathering up our

broaches which looked like so many small pyramids, we marched

Indian file to the sitting-room for Mrs. G---- to reel the thread

we had spun. Our broaches had to be placed in a basket for the

thread to be run off as it listed. There was “a scientific way” of

running the thread on to the bobbins, which were of corn-husks or

thick paper, and placed on the spindle of the wheel for the thread

to be run on to form the broach. Any one at all experienced in

spinning could so run the thread on the broach that in reeling, the

broach being held at the base by the hand, the thread would run

smoothly off the apex of the broach without ever a break or tangle

to the very last strand. We had not run our thread on the broaches

with the same amount of skill we had shown in spinning, hence there

was much difficulty in reeling, but before we had finished the

thirty-six yards of cloth our broaches ceased to give annoyance.

It was decided by all in the room that my broaches must be the

first reeled,--how strangely these names sound now, then familiar

household words, “broach,” “reel,” “hank,” “rolls,” “card,” “warp,”

“web of cloth,” and so on! With no little pride I saw my great

day’s work sailing round on the reel. At every one hundred and

twenty rounds, a sharp click of the reel, and one cut would be

told. A thread was looped around that cut, to separate it from

the next cut. But as the reel gave the second sharp click, and

that cut was looped, I saw with dismay that what was left of my

broaches would barely reel another cut. I almost held my breath as

the third cut was flying round. “Shades of Pallas!” thought I, “am

I to have only three cuts?” Alas! click! only three cuts and a few

strands of thread over. How glad I was that I had not voiced in the

household my being so sure of seven or more cuts! All were quite

mystified for a few moments to know why after such a day’s carding

and spinning I should have fallen so short of the task allotted

each one, and which was fairly within our power. Some of the girls

were saying “I think I won’t have my broaches reeled.” Mrs. G----,

meanwhile, was giving my small hank the necessary loops around the

reel before removing, and when she did remove my hank from the

reel it rolled a ball of kinks in her hands. Having been warned

that the warp, to make it strong, required much more twisting than

filling, but being an entire novice in the art, I had given the

thread I spun entirely too much twist,--had really put six cuts

in three, so that, after all, I had not done so bad a day’s work,

and could join as heartily as the others in ridiculing my ball of

kinks, as it passed from one to another for inspection.

The other warp spinner had not given her thread enough twist to

answer for warp, so that it had to be used for woof. Mrs. G----,

dear motherly woman that she ever was, knowing how assiduously we

had applied ourselves to the card and wheels, and wishing to give

encouragement to our undertaking, gave to each of us unfortunates

eight cuts of warp so that we also closed that Saturday night

rejoicing with the other two spinners, who had made just their

number of cuts. But as I lay down to sleep, it was with the thought

that the twelve labors of Hercules were as nothing compared to the

eighteen yards of warp-thread which I had given my pledge to card

and spin.

As the novelty of carding and spinning wore off, we often grew

weary in our strife, and it is not to be denied that all four of

us became heartily sick of our agreement by the time we had carded

and spun two weeks at night and two Saturdays, and never another

Saturday dawned that found us so eager to spin as did the first

one. Each of the four felt inclined to withdraw from the compact,

but that was never acknowledged until victory had crowned our

efforts.

VII.

As no muslin could be bought for summer wear, and our home-made

cloth was very heavy and warm for hot weather, we women of southern

Alabama devised a plan for making muslin out of our own homespun

thread; and the fact that it was made of this thread added not a

little to its excellence in our estimation.

In the weaving of all heavy, thick cloth, whether plain or twilled,

two threads, sometimes three, were always passed through the reeds

of the sley, when the warp was put in the loom for weaving the web

of cloth. The experiment for muslin, and it proved quite a success,

was to draw the threads of warp singly through the reeds of the

sley. In the process of making muslin, both warp and woof were

sized with sizing made of flour, to make the threads more smooth

and unbending; whereas plain cloth had only the warp sized, and

that with sizing made of Indian-meal. When thread for the muslin

was beamed, and one single thread passed through the reeds of the

sley, and only a slight tap of the batten given as the shuttle

passed through the opening with its quill of sized thread, the

texture was thin and gauze-like, and stood out like any real muslin

stiffened with starch.