Monday Dr. Woods and Mr. Van Ingen stopped, just from their
regiment in Kentucky and on their way home, and I begged so hard to see the
Doctor, and promised so faithfully to retire if I suffered too much, that Mrs.
Badger yielded, like an angel, and I carried my point. The Doctor! We looked in
vain at each other; I for my dandy friend in irreproachable broadcloth,
immaculate shirt bosoms and perfect boots; he for the brusque, impulsive girl
who in ordinary circumstances would have run dancing into the parlor, would
have given him half-glad, half-indifferent greeting, and then found either
occasion to laugh at him or would have turned elsewhere for amusement. We
looked, I say, in vain. Before me stood my pattern of neatness in a rough
uniform of brown homespun. A dark flannel shirt replaced the snowy cambric one,
and there was neither cravat nor collar to mark the boundary line between his
dark face and the still darker material. And the dear little boots! O ye gods
and little fishes! they were clumsy, and mud-spattered! If my mouth twitched
with laughter as I silently commented, the Doctor's did not! I, who always
danced on my way, came in lying back on my pillows, and wheeled in by a
servant. The Doctor's sympathy was really touching, and poor consolation he
gave when he heard the story. “You will recover, to a certain extent; but will
feel it more or less all your life.”
I am the ruin of all these puns; the gentlemen will hate me;
I must learn to ignore their conundrums until they answer them themselves, and
to wait patiently for the pun instead of catching it and laughing before it is
half-spoken. Why can't I do as the others do? There was Mr. Van Ingen with his
constant stream of them, that I anticipated several times. He said to me, “If I
were asked what town in Louisiana I would rather be in this evening, what would
my answer be?” I should have looked perfectly innocent, and politely
inquisitive; but I did neither. I saw the answer instantly, and laughed. “Ah,
you have guessed! I can see it in your eyes!” he said. Of course I had, but I
told him I was afraid to say it, for fear he might think I was flattering
myself. Then we both laughed. The place he referred to was Bayou, Sarah. . .
.
Yesterday, being a beautiful day, I was carried down in
honor of Christmas, to meet Captain Fenner and Mr. Duggan who were to dine with
us. The cars had brought Miriam a beautiful little set of collars and cuffs
from Dellie, and the oddest, sweetest little set for me, from Morgan, for our
Christmas gift. It is all Lilly. . . .
We had an exquisite Christmas gift the night before, a
magnificent serenade, a compliment from Colonel Breaux. It very singularly
happened that Miriam, Anna, and Ned Badger were sitting up in the parlor,
watching alone for Christmas, when the band burst forth at the steps, and
startled them into a stampede upstairs. But Gibbes, who came with the
serenaders, caught them and brought them back into the parlor, where there were
only eight gentlemen; and in this novel, unheard-of style, only these
two girls, with Gibbes to play propriety, entertained all these people at
midnight while the band played without. . . .
I commenced writing to-day expressly to speak of our
pleasant Christmas; yet it seems as though I would write about anything except
that, since I have not come to it yet. Perhaps it is because I feel I could not
do it justice. At least, I can say who was there. At sunset came Captain
Bradford and Mr. Conn, the first stalking in with all the assurance which a
handsome face and fine person can lend, the second following with all the
timidity of a first appearance. . . . Again, after a long pause, the door swung
open, and enter Mr. Halsey, who bows and takes the seat on the other side of
me, and Mr. Bradford, of Colonel Allen memory, once more returned to his
regiment, who laughs, shakes hands all around, and looks as happy as a
schoolboy just come home for the holidays, who has never-ending visions of
plumcakes, puddings, and other sweet things. While all goes on merrily, another
rap comes, and enter Santa Claus, dressed in the old uniform of the Mexican
War, with a tremendous cocked hat, and preposterous beard of false hair, which
effectually conceal the face, and but for the mass of tangled short curls no
one could guess that the individual was Bud. It was a device of the General's,
which took us all by surprise. Santa Claus passes slowly around the circle, and
pausing before each lady, draws from his basket a cake which he presents with a
bow, while to each gentleman he presents a wineglass replenished from a most
suspicious-looking black bottle which also reposes there. Leaving us all wonder
and laughter, Santa Claus retires with a basket much lighter than it had been
at his entrance. ... Then follow refreshments, and more and more talk and
laughter, until the clock strikes twelve, when all these ghosts bid a hearty
goodnight and retire.
SOURCE: Sarah Morgan Dawson, A Confederate Girl's
Diary, p. 304-7
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