October 2014

October 27, 1864.—I certainly do love to go to Uncle Tom’s; I have always loved him and his daughters but the principal attraction just now is the crowd of children who are living with him “until this cruel war is over.” Captain Bernard and Cousin Torn, both brought their families to Uncle Torn, when they enlisted in the army. Cousin Mary Bernard is a beautiful woman and she has four uncommonly good-looking little folks; Bettie, ten years old, is a demure, wee maiden, much smaller than Overton, who is only eight.

Ruby is just the prettiest brunette youngster you ever saw and Jessie, who is only two years old, is perfectly lovely and I love to get her in my arms. But we have a sweet little girl at our house and cousin William and cousin Sarah have two, who are hard to beat, but all of these, like Cousin Mary’s, are quiet children. Cousin Tom and Cousin Frances have six and they interest me greatly. They are not quiet, not they. Such rollicking, frolicking, jolly boys you never saw.

Uncle Tom really adores them but he complains heavily of the liberties they take. No sooner does he settle himself comfortably on the front porch to read the newspaper than they absolutely swarm all over him. If he has a letter to write he runs them off but usually it ends in his rising from that aforesaid comfortable position and going with them to the pasture to catch a horse; to the lot to yoke up some calves to be broken for oxen; to the lake to paddle the canoe or perhaps to catch some fish, anything to get “grandpa,” who is their idol, out in the open with them.

It is in vain that Cousin Frances says “Father, do not let these boys disturb you in this manner, Daniel has nothing to do but look after them.” But she knows all the time that it is his pleasure to humor them.

I love this “rough and tumble” young army; they are like steps when they stand in a row and the eldest one is just a very small boy. I love to take them out of doors and listen to them talk. Yesterday we met at Walnut Hill, to sew and then, of course, we could not play, but the children came around and there was a steady stream of talk. The boys and girls seemed equally proud of the “Soldier Papa” as they called their absent fathers but today they had Christmas on the brain.

“What will Santa Claus bring us, Aunt Lizzie?” asked Sam.

Aunt Lizzie explained that the blockade would keep Old Santa out of the country.

“Don’t you remember, Sam, when Captain Wheeler’s boat was trying to enter the Suwanee and the Yankees captured him and all the nice clothes Grandpa had ordered and paid for, for you, were captured?”

“Yes,” Sam remembered, and a silence fell upon the group, sitting around on the floor and, when conversation was resumed, it was rather a sad outlook for Christmas.

Sam was certainly needy; the clothes he wore were neatly patched in almost every conceivable place and like Joseph’s coat, showed many colors. Sadly the boys talked of Christmas trees they had either seen or heard of ; almost with tears they deplored the blockade and finally little Henry sobbed out loud, “Oh, God, please ‘stroy de’ Ankees.” Some way must be found to help Santa Claus run the blockade.