Here is another old letter: "Cousin mine: I came home from school a few days ago. Railroads all broken up and it took several days to make the journey in the carriage, stopping over-night along the route. At most houses, there was hardly anything to offer but shelter, but hospitality was perfect. Only cornbread and sassafras tea at one place; no servants to render attention; silver gone; family portraits punctured with bayonets; furniture and mirrors broken. Reaching home, found everything strange because of great change in domestic regime. Our cook, who has reigned in our kitchen for thirty years, is in Richmond, coining money out of a restaurant. Most of our servants have gone to the city. Our old butler and Mammy abide. I think it would have killed me had Mammy gone! "I cannot tell you how it oppressed me to miss the familiar black faces I have loved all my life, and to feel that our negroes cared so little for us, and left at the first invitation. I have something strange to tell you. Mammy has been free since before I was born. I never knew till now. I was utterly wretched, and exclaimed: 'Well, Mammy, I reckon you'll go too!' She took it as a deadly insult; I had to humble myself. While she was mad, the secret burst out: 'Ef I'd wanted to go, I could ha' gone long time ago. No Yankees sot me free! My marster sot me free.' She showed me her manumission papers in grandfather's hand, which she has worn for I don't know how long, in a little oil-silk bag around her neck, never caring to use them. Domestic cares are making me gray! But I get some fun trying to do things I never did before, while Mammy scolds me for 'demeaning' myself." There was honour in the "gritty" way the Southern housewife adapted herself to the situation, humour in the way spoiled maidens played the part of milkmaid or of Bridget. "Do you know how to make lightbread?" one of our friends inquired, and proceeded to brag of her new accomplishments, adding: "I had never gotten a meal in my life until the morning after the Yankees passed, when I woke to find not a single servant on the place. There was a lone cow left. I essayed to milk her, but retired in dire confusion. I couldn't make the milk go in the pail to save my life! It squirted in my face and eyes and all over my hair. The cow switched her tail around and cut my countenance, made demonstrations with her hind feet, and I retired. One of my daughters sat on the milking-stool and milked away as if she had been born to it." "The first meal I got," another friend wrote, "my sons cooked. They learned how in the army. I thought the house was coming down while they were beating the biscuit! They drove me from the kitchen. 'We don't hate the Yankees for thrashing us,' they said, 'but God knows we hate them for turning our women into hewers of wood and drawers of water.' Now, I'm as good a cook as my boys. Can do everything domestic except kill a chicken. I turn the chicken loose every time."