One day in August the news came that Gen. John C. Breckinridge was on his way to attack Baton Rouge; that his army of less than three thousand were tired and in need of food, and would be glad if the citizens would send out something to the road on which they were marching. Every family in the country began to prepare food; quantities of green corn, potatoes, vegetables, egg-bread, chickens, in fact, everything that could be had was cooked, packed in baskets, and carried out to meet the army. General Breckinridge pitched camp on the Comite River. On a foggy morning, August 5, the battle was fought. Historians have told all about the short, desperate battle. I remember the great disappointment that was expressed, and how people wondered why the _Arkansas_ did not do her part on the river, where the enemy's three gunboats made such havoc. We did not know that she was lying, entirely disabled, only four miles away. After the battle the sick and wounded were taken to Green-well Springs, a pretty little summer resort near us, where a hospital was established, mattresses being laid on the floors of the parlors and dining-room of the hotel. Southern women then proved their love and devotion to their country's defenders. Every day buggies, drays, and carts went to the Springs, loaded with jellies, soups, and every delicate thing that we could make with our limited means. The surgeons had no lint to dress the wounds, so we went home, tore our finest linen sheets and table cloths into strips, and with sharp knives scraped them into fine, soft lint, for linen makes much better lint than plain cotton. During this time General Breckinridge, who was a very handsome man, visited our home and dined with us several times. On one occasion, just after a charming dinner with the General and several of his staff as guests, a heavy storm gathered. The rain fell in torrents all the afternoon. My parents urged the guests to spend the night as it was so dark and threatening, but the General said, "While it is a great temptation to enjoy for a few hours the comforts of a home, duty calls me to my camp and my boys." We learned to enjoy our "labor of love," and memory treasures Green-well Springs as a sacred spot where hands, heads, and hearts were used freely in the service of our beloved Southland. THE "JAYHAWKERS" THE "JAYHAWKERS"