"It will be soft for the wound of a soldier," I said, "after he has fought the Yankees."
"I'll pick den; I'll tar up my onlies' apun ef he'll kill one."
"Oh, Charity!"
"Yas'm, I will dat! Huccome we all don' drive 'm out o' Suffolk? Der's lodes an lodes o' shoes an' stockin's, an' sugar an' cawfy in Suffolk! An' dese nasty Abolition Yankees got 'em all!"
"Those are not proper words for you to use," I said. "What have you against the Northern people? They never did you harm."
"Dey ain't, ain't dey?" she replied, with feeling. "Huccome I'se got to go barfooted? Hit's scan'lous for a free gal to go barfooted, like she was so no 'count she couldn't git a par o' shoes fer herse'f."
"I'll ask the General to order a pair for you."
"Humph!" said Charity, scornfully; "you can't do nothin' wid dat Gen'al. Ain' I hear you baig an' baig 'im for a par o' slippers dat time he fristricated de boatload full? I ain' seen you git de slippers."
Charity was not the only one of the Nation's Wards who held the enemy in contempt. The special terms in which she designated them were in common use at the time. She had often heard them from the General's servant, John, who shared the opinions of the common soldier. Some of the expressions of the great men I knew in Washington were quite as offensive and not a bit less inelegant, although framed in better English. I never approved of "calling names," I had seen what comes of it; and I reproved John for teaching them to my little boys.
"No'm," said John, "I won't say nothin'; I'll just say the Yankees are mighty mean folks."