SOME of the happiest days of my childhood were spent in Jackson, magnolia-clad, holly-decked Jackson.

I remember the journey very well. We went in a box car, my father on his cot. We had nothing for seats but some boxes. There were armed soldiers on our train. We passed little squads of soldiers at intervals along the roadside, some of whom with stacked arms were engaged in cooking by their campfires. Sometimes the train would stop a few minutes, and some of the “boys” would come up and talk to us.

Arrived at Jackson, we were taken in an ambulance to hospital No. 2, where they were too full to receive us. We were invited to dinner, however, and were then assigned quarters in a large hotel called the Manassas House. The hotel property was owned by a Mr. Tolliver. There were two landlords or proprietors, Hotellen and Wilcox by name. There was no landlady but a housekeeper known as Irish Mary. There was also an Irishman employed as a “handy man,” whose name was Mike.

Jackson was a beautiful little city situated between two railroads. It contained many handsome residences set back in well kept grounds. It was in possession of the Union troops. Gen. Sullivan was in command. Col. Lawler had his headquarters near the hotel. The 103d Illinois and other regiments were in camp here. There were two large brick hospitals, known as No. 1 and No. 2, situated on opposite sides of the town. Dr. Haversett was in charge of both. Miss Adaline Williams had been sent here from Corinth and was assigned to duty in No. 1, where I made daily visits passing on the way two huge piles of cannon balls stacked up in pyramidal form.

THE MEASLES

WHILE in the Manassas House we had many pleasures and some sorrow. In room No. 19 “Little Rosebud” and I had measles, which nearly cost us our lives. We took it of one of the colored chambermaids, who died before we got well. We could see the negro quarters from the back window of our room, and my mother propped me up in bed with pillows, one Sunday afternoon, that I might see poor Ann placed in a common road wagon and hauled away for burial. Little Rosebud’s life was despaired of several times, it being thought one night that she could not live until morning. We had many kind friends during this time of trial.

Dr. Huntington came over from Hospital No. 2 several times each day to attend us, and to him my parents always gave the credit of having saved my sister’s life.

While we were sick, our former nurse, Thomas Torrie, came to see us. When he first entered the room I knew him, but soon after, the fever arose, and I became delirious. He was a very religious man and my parents asked him to pray with them. I remember yet the impressions of that hour. It seemed to me that we were all in an old barn, with long, dusty cobwebs hanging from the high rafters, and as I saw the three kneeling not far from my bed, they seemed afar off, and the tones of the prayer sounded faint and distant to my fever-thickened ears. A few days later our friend Thomas visited us again and found us much improved. The fever had left me, my mind was clear and I was able to talk to him. He loaned me a stencil plate, ink and brush, and I amused myself by marking the hotel linen with his name. I made a rapid recovery, but alas! my voice was gone, and for weeks I spoke only in whispers.

THE STOLEN PRESERVES

ABOUT the time of our recovery, the housekeeper, “Irish Mary,” took the measles and was quite sick for some days. She had been in the habit of giving out the linen and towels for the bedrooms and always carried the key to the linen closet, a large wardrobe which stood in one end of the hall. During her illness each lady boarder looked after the supplies for her own room, and would obtain the key when anything was needed. One day a doctor’s wife, an intimate friend of ours, came to our room in great excitement, saying she had found a large jar of peach preserves in the wardrobe, and that she “was going to have some of them.” She rushed down stairs to the dining room, secured a saucer and spoon, returned and dipped out a bountiful supply. By this time several other ladies had “caught on,” and they all swarmed about that jar as flies around a molasses barrel. One lady with a “down-east” accent, who always said “gude” for good, ate her portion, smacked her lips and said, “My, but they are gude!”