When a sufficient number of these articles had been completed by the
united efforts of ladies for miles around, a meeting was held at one
of the churches, where all helped to pack boxes to be sent to "the
front." I attended one of these meetings, the memory of which is ever
fresh.

We started from the plantation in the early morning. Our way lay along
the red clay roads which in many parts of Alabama contrast so
beautifully with the variously-shaded green of the woods and the brown
carpet beneath the pines. The old negro driver, "Uncle George,"
sitting upon the box, looked solemnly out from the enormous and stiff
shirt-collar which helped to support his dignity.

I believe the old man always drove his beautiful horses under protest.
It was either too early or too late, too hot or too cold, the roads
either too muddy or too dusty.

This particular morning was so lovely that even the horses seemed to
enjoy it, and for some reason "Uncle George" was less pompous and more
gentle than usual. Perhaps the anxious faces of the ladies touched his
heart, or he may have been softened by the knowledge of the perils his
young masters were being subjected to.

As often as we passed horseman or carriage on the road a stop was
ordered, while the ladies made eager inquiries for news from Richmond.

The battle of Shiloh, and afterwards that of Seven Pines, had
desolated many homes in the vicinity. The fate of some was yet
uncertain. Strong fellow-feeling knit all hearts. _Any_ passer-by,
even if a stranger, asked or answered questions.