Solely for the amusement of these men, my little son, only four years old, was taken each day out on the porch, where, with one of their guns, he was made to shoot at a target, while I, horrified, would stand and look on, not daring to remove him.

Among the many cruel deeds that these men committed, this is one of the most marked: With bayonets in hand, they walked around, and would thrust the gleaming blade into a hog or dog, leaving it to suffer and die. At one time there were seven dogs and two horses lying dead in the yard; besides, there were wounded hogs, dying by degrees, by wounds received in this way. It was hard indeed to stand by and see our stock slaughtered in this

manner.

Our enemies stripped our beds of quilts and, throwing them carelessly upon the ground, led horse after horse upon them, to be brushed and curried. In those days women prided themselves upon making beautiful quilts. My mother was specially fond of this work, and had quite a number of them. But these things, that we would hold sacred these days as precious heirlooms, were then trodden under foot by horses.

One day, as I walked into an adjoining room, I found several men tearing my mother's Brussels carpet from the floor. I entreated them to leave us the carpet. Seeing that they did not heed my entreaties, I went to Captain Day (captain of General Kilpatrick's staff) and asked him to stop the men before they tore the carpet into shreds. He replied, "I can't do it, madam; the fellows want it for saddle cloths." Already disgusted with the fact that they had robbed us of food and clothing, and that, by their hand, starvation seemed staring us in the face, fairly goaded to desperation, I said, "Sir! you are no better than the rest of them!" With a bitter, sarcastic laugh, he replied, "Hardly as good, I guess, madam."

My brother Isaac had, a short time prior to the arrival of Kilpatrick's men, been at home recruiting. Before he was able to leave, hearing daily that Sherman's raid was approaching, he thought best to leave, which he only did in time to keep from being captured. We stood on the piazza and watched them burn the ginhouse in which our cotton, some of which we had kept there for four years, had been stored. Remembering a gun that my brother Isaac had captured, and which was hidden in the house, I hastily slipped it from its hiding place and, wrapping it in the folds of my dress, I made my way to the well, where I dropped it in, feeling greatly relieved. I knew, once they found the gun, which they would have

known to have been captured by a "Rebel," they would, regardless of Kilpatrick's orders, burn the house.

This was Kilpatrick's headquarters, and for that reason our home was spared us. Officers guarded the house at night, for which we were very thankful. But one of them sarcastically informed me one day that my mother's home would be left, but on my return to Sumter I would find my husband's home in ashes. But it was left, and though somewhat impaired, still stands.

For three weeks we suffered untold suspense, knowing not what the next day would bring forth. When the day dawned on which they were to leave, with hearts too full for words, sighs of relief, and a silent prayer to God for the shelter left over our heads, we watched them ride away, leaving us to the tender mercies of Providence. Immediately after they left we began to realize more keenly the seriousness of our position-no food! no clothing! Going out about the premises, we picked up the corn left on the ground by the horses. Washing this carefully, and grinding it in the coffee mill, we made coffee and bread. This, used sparingly, was our only nourishment for several days. My husband's brother, Major William Green, with other friends and relatives in Sumter County, hearing of our destitute condition, hastened to our aid, and sent in bountiful supplies. These lasted until the return of my brothers, who lost no time in getting the land in readiness for planting.

Oh! daughters of the South, think not your long suffering and patient endurance was in vain! Your reward is not earthly-it is in the world beyond; there the Heavenly Father awaits you. Hail! Confederate veterans, be not chagrined; theirs was the victory here— let us aspire to something loftier, and as God in his tender mercy forgives us our daily trespasses, let us set the little flame of "forgiveness" to the great barrier that has risen up between the North and South. Let us forget the envy that they bore us, and by so doing set a far nobler example to the coming generation of the South, and may it pass from lips to lips, from generation to generation, "Long live the name of the Confederacy!" Bravely she fought for her rights, until her men became a mere remnant compared to those from the thickly settled North-then was she proclaimed defeated.

Again, as bravely as they fought on the battlefield, they fight-and win-"the battle of forgiveness."

"All praise to the Sunny South!"

MRS. LOTTIE L. GREEN.

The Response to the Negroes' Call. In March, 1865, after repeated messages had reached us from the negroes on our Lexington place, mother and I accomplished the trip from the extreme eastern side of the town of Columbia, through the desolation and ruins left by Sherman, and reached our people, to see after their needs as well as we could.

The Yankees had robbed the mill place of everything-horses, corn, and all the meat which had not been hidden by the overseerLeCones—a man disqualified for the army, and therefore in our service. All the provisions left were pea-vines, cured with the peas on them. The negroes knew that LeCones had hidden enough meat and lard to supply their present necessities; but he refused to give them anything.

Columbia was eleven miles distant, and the river between. The negroes sent messengers from time to time to report the overseer to mother; but as there was no way then to cross the Congaree, Sherman having burnt the bridge, all she could do was to tell them everything would be done as soon as the mill could be reached by her. 'Taint no use to tell him nothin', miss; he ain't gwine do nothin' 'cept you come yo'self," said the last messenger.

The Yankees entered Columbia the 17th of February. I think it was about the middle of March, or perhaps sooner, that, the ferry being established, my mother and I borrowed Mr. Bostick's carriage (the one carriage then owned in Columbia), crossed the river, and drove thirteen miles without meeting a creature. After getting out of the city, and arriving at the Berry Creek mill, we found LeCones gone for the day. This compelled us to stay all night, for we found the tale of the negroes to be true-they had nothing to eat, and the astonishment was that they had not risen in a body and robbed LeCones' house, in which they knew the meat to be secreted. Mother and I went into every barn, house and storage place, except his, and found concealed some jars of lard, and a gun. These we sent to Columbia by the carriage, which had to return without us, leaving us eight miles from the only white men we knew of on that side of the river-the two old Messrs. Kinsler, sixty-eight and seventy years of age. I was myself twenty-five, and not easily daunted; but I would not wish to repeat the experience of that trip.

At sundown, LeCones returned. Mother and I had established ourselves in a cabin, having nothing in it but the loom, where the cloth had been woven for the negroes. Upon this was placed a tick, supplied by Lyddy (good old Nick's wife), who took it from her

own bed, washed it clean, and filled it with straw, as soon as we knew we were to stay all night. Mother and I sat in the doorway, for the fireplace smoked; and there LeCones met us. The interview was stormy, he claiming everything, and justifying this by accusing us of not paying his last dues. We answered that these had been offered to him, in Confederate money, which he had refused to take. The surrender had not taken place; therefore, the negroes were our care, and we had gone to their assistance when they came to us in their trouble, and believed in our promise to do all we could for them. The quarrel was between a desperate man, with a wife and five children, and two ladies, who had their slaves. We were willing to share as a gift, but to accord nothing as a debt, and we demanded the meat, which he denied having concealed. The first of the talk was between mother and himself, but when he accused her of unfair dealing, I took it up. I told him many things, and that he needn't expect to frighten us; that only a coward could act as he was acting; that I had met Sherman's bummers, but never one more unmanly than he was, nor more impertinent, etc.; that on the morrow he was to leave, and that the hidden meat should be left behind. Well, after a time, I ordered him to go, for "we would stand no more." He rose and went off to his own house, which was quite near our cabin. I had left my pistol at his house. I sent Lyddy for it. She returned, telling me LeCones said he wouldn't give it. I sent again, and instead of sending it, he came himself, bounding from his house (he was six feet tall) towards mother and me (still sitting in the doorway). His right hand was in the breast of his vest, and it looked as though he held a pistol. My mother sprang up, crying, "Mr. LeCones, don't shoot." I, too, rose. Putting my hand on my mother's shoulder, I cried, “Stand where you are, sir"—and he stood, whether at my order or not I do not know; and I continued pointing my finger at the man. "Mother, have no fear; he is a coward of cowards; he would not dare to shoot." Meantime, LeCones said, from where he stood, "You shall not have your pistol till you give me my gun." He had accused us of having the gun in the loom house, although I had told him we sent it by the carriage. I replied, "That pistol I will have this night." Drawing my mother into the house, I shut the door in LeCones' face.

The negroes' quarters were quite a distance away. Leaving mother with Lyddy, I walked to these quarters in the darkness, found old Abram and Charles Prioleau, told them to be very quiet, not to excite any alarm, but find me a pencil and paper-both of these were

scarce in those days. After much rummaging in cracks and crevices, by the flame of a lightwood splinter, an old envelope was found which had enough white left to allow of two short notes being written one to Mr. Bostick, at Columbia, telling him if he heard nothing of us in the next twelve hours, to come and look for us; this, Abram was to take to the river, and use the first chance to take to Columbia; the other was sent by Charles to the Messrs. Kinsler, telling them to "come at once to us." Nothing could be written, and the messengers did not know anything. We had to be very careful, lest a spark might light up negro passions and blaze in unprotected homes. (We had no light but from a lightwood knot.)

Mother lay down on Lyddy's tick in the loom, and I waited in a chair by her till about one o'clock a. m.; then we heard voices, and then a knock, and the two old gentlemen came in. Had they been angels they could not have been more welcome; we were again in touch with the outside world-they were so gentle, so calm, so reassuring. They went to LeCones' house. We could hear the knock and opening of the front door, and their coming out to a log between the two houses; then Lyddy would creep out and come back and report; she couldn't hear much, but enough to tell us LeCones was getting toned down. At last the gentlemen came to us, pistol in hand, and bearing the abject apologies of LeCones, and the confession that he did take as much meat as he could store in the loft of his house, and we could get it all on the morrow.

The next day there was a clearing out which was pathetic and funny too. Mother lent LeCones our one wagon, packed tight with pea-vines, some of the restored bacon, a big jar of lard, such pans and cooking utensils as could be spared, and any amount of kind words and good wishes for his wife and children. The last we saw of the LeCones was on this wagon, topped by his wife and five children, and driven by one of our hands. That night we slept in the overseer's house, after the negroes had scoured and cleared it. Next day, we returned to Columbia. Columbia, S. C.

GRACE ELMORE.

When Sherman Passed Through

Lancaster.

We awaited the coming of Sherman's Army, in the spring of 1865, with the greatest apprehension, for the reports which preceded its approach of the destruction and burning of everything in its wake were calculated to arouse the alarm of any civilized community.