Chapter XIV: Repairing Damages--A Mother Made Happy--Conclusion 170 (2)

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.

The thread for our muslins was dyed a deep plum color. In the case of each of our four dresses, the warp was the same: twelve or fourteen threads of the plum color and three threads of white alternating with the plum color and white thread the width and length of the cloth. The older daughter and I had ours filled in solid with plum color, which, with the narrow white stripes in the warp, made a very neat dress. The two other girls had theirs checked with white, so as to form a square with the white stripe in the warp; then small bits of crimson merino were placed in the centre of the square. Our muslins reminded me of “Swiss muslins,” with their raised flowers of silk or fine wool thread. When we first appeared in them, they were mistaken for the genuine imported muslins.

Soon after completing and wearing our home-made muslins, news came into our settlement that a steamer had run the blockade, and that the city of Eufaula had secured some bolts of prints and other notions. The Saturday following the report, Mr. G---- ordered Ben to harness up the horses, and we were driven to Eufaula, not to buy, but simply to have a look at these imports. Sure enough, on the shelves in the store that had long lain empty, there were tastefully disposed a few bolts of English prints, some ladies’ straw hats, a bolt or two of fine bleached stuff, some calico, and a few pairs of ladies’ shoes. These were the magnets which had drawn us eleven miles! We had fondly imagined ourselves satisfied with our home-made cloth, and had said of it, as David of the sword of Goliath, “There is none like that; give it me.” When we had held aloft our knit and cloth-made shoes and slippers, with the words, “What do we care for the blockade when we can make such as these?” we had little dreamed that our firmness would so suddenly collapse before about three bolts of calico and a few pairs of black morocco shoes, lined with red and deep blue leather, laced high and scalloped around the top edge. Yet so it was, for when the merchant unfolded to our view his brand-new prints, looking so fresh and novel, we four had nine yards apiece cut off, paying twelve dollars per yard for it. It was something over a yard wide, and as we knew nothing of the ruffling, puffing, plaiting, tucking, or shirring of overskirts or polonaises outside the blockade, nine yards were amply sufficient for a dress.

The design of that print is yet vivid to my memory. The background was a pale blending of violet with white; the foreground was dotted with violets of a deep purple color. I bought the same day a plain brown straw hat, paying one hundred dollars for it, and a half quire of small white note-paper for forty dollars. A pair of morocco gaiters cost one of the daughters three hundred and seventy-five dollars. We surely will be pardoned, if we felt some pride in wearing muslins that we had manufactured with our own hands, and fresh new calicoes which had cost each of us one hundred and eight dollars.

Our neighbors, as soon as it was noised about in that quiet settlement (where it seemed almost impossible for tidings of the outside world to come) that we had new store-bought calicoes, all paid us a visit in order that they might see how a new print looked amidst so much home-woven cloth; and a bit of the scraps left was given each visitor. I sent a small scrap of my new calico--our war-time calicoes, as we then and afterward called them--in a letter to my relatives in Georgia. Whenever any one was so fortunate as to secure a new print, small scraps of it were sent in letters to friends and relatives, so rare were new calicoes.

Indeed, it was not at all uncommon for friends or relatives to send small samples of new homespun cloth to one another in letters whenever what was thought to be a particularly good pattern had been devised, or the colors were exceptionally brilliant.