Little girls of eight and ten and twelve were wandering along through
the suffocating dust alone.
Jennie called to one she knew:
"Where's your mother, child?"
The girl shook her dust-powdered head.
"I don't know, m'am."
"Where are you going?"
"To walk on till I find her."
Her mother was wandering with distracted cries among the crowds a mile
in the rear looking for a nursing baby she had lost in the excitement.
Jennie's eyes kindled at the sight of faithful negroes everywhere
lugging the treasures of their mistresses. She began asking them what
they were carrying just to hear the answer that always came with a touch
of loyal pride.
"Dese is my missy's clothes! I sho weren't gwine let dem Yankees steal
dem!"
"Didn't you save any of your own things?"
"Didn't have time ter git mine!"
They came to a guerilla camp. Men and horses were resting on either side
of the road. Some of them were carrying water to their horses or to the
women who cooked about their camp fires. The scene looked like a monster
barbecue. These irregular troops of the South were friends in time of
need to-day.
They crowded the road, asking for news and commenting freely on the
shelling of the city.
A rough-looking fellow pushed his way to Jennie's cart.
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