December 1st, 1861,
New Orleans.
Just completed another bundle of clothes for poor Claude, which we hope will reach him before Christmas, the other bundle having failed to reach him. Mrs. Brown (Mrs. Shepherd) went with me to Lyon’s to choose his coats and gloves. We have roasted some coffee and made some cake, which we have stuffed in his pillow. I wonder how long the poor boy’s head will lie peacefully on the latter. We have cut up our flannel double-gowns to make him shirts, as everything is so dreadfully high these blockade times. I have longed for money that I might send him many things to gladden both, his heart and those of his comrades, in their darksome little log huts at Manchac. We have done what we could, but have been cut off from further supplies, and have the troublesome spirit of proud people who will exist on a crust rather than ask help. I believe our friends would love us better if we were less proud. Went in Mrs. Brown’s carriage to the confectioner’s to-day for Claude’s cake—got out of sick bed to do so—called for Mrs. Brown, who went with us to the Southern Express office. There is a kind old man in there whom I love to hear speak of “Our Soldiers.” He refuses all freight except what is sent to our poor boys; he promises Claude shall have his things before Christmas. My heart turns so lovingly to our poor brother—shall I ever see him again? Will he die in battle, or will this wretched cough that keeps me awake at night and makes me feel so worn and weak in the morning, kill me before he can return a victorious soldier?
