Our women gave their carpets to make blankets, their dresses to be made into shirts for the soldiers, and their linen to furnish lint for their wounds, and then, clad in homespun, they gave themselves. Nearly every town and village in the South had its Soldiers' Aid Society and its hospital. Thousands and thousands of the poor fellows were taken to private houses, even away out in the country, and tenderly cared for. There was scarcely a woman near a battlefield or a railroad who did not nurse a soldier. Nearly every woman in Richmond served regularly on hospital committees. One of these, a Mrs. Roland, was blind, and her sweet guitar and sweeter song cheered many a poor hero. One of the songs of these days was "Let me kiss him for his Mother." Here's a story to show how woman's petting, which always spoils a boy and sometimes a husband, occasionally found a hard case in a Confederate soldier. Among the sick in Richmond was a brave young fellow, who was a great favorite and the only son of a widowed mother, who was far away beyond the Mississippi. One morning the report got out that he was dying in the hospital, and one of the prettiest and sweetest young ladies in the city was so touched by the sad story that she determined to go and kiss him for his mother. She hastened to the ward where the poor youth was lying high up on one of the upper tiers of bunks and quickly told her mission to the nurses. "I don't know him, but oh, its so sad, and I have come to 'kiss him for his mother' away out in Texas." Now he wasn't dying at all, but was much better, and as he peeped at the sweet face, the rascal, raising his head over the edge of the bunk, said, "Never mind the old lady, miss, just go it on your own hook." Now that's just the thanks these ununiformed sisters of mercy sometimes got for their pains. Put on this monument a pair of crutches. You never see the bright star of womanhood until it shines in the darkness of man's misfortune. It is the furnace of man's suffering that brings out the pure gold of her love. Here's a specimen. On a cold winter day, when Lee's army was marching through one of the lower sections of Virginia, some of the veterans were completely barefooted, and the Sixth Georgia Regiment was passing. A plain country woman was standing in the group by the road side. "Lord, a mercy," said she, "there's a poor soldier ain't go no shoes," and off came hers in a jiffy and she ordered her negro woman standing by to give hers up, too. The good woman wore number threes, and the soldier who got them was Jake Quarles, of Company B, Dade County, Georgia, who wore number twelves. Soon after the war I once expressed my sympathy to a young lady friend who was about to marry a young one-armed soldier. "I want no sympathy. I think it a great privilege and honor to be the wife of a man who lost his arm fighting for my country," was her prompt reply. That's your Southern girl.