I have had such a search for shoes this week that I am
disgusted with shopping. I am triumphant now, for after traversing the town in
every direction and finding nothing, I finally discovered a pair of boots just
made for a little negro to go fishing with, and only an inch and a half too long
for me, besides being unbendable; but I seized them with avidity, and the
little negro would have been outbid if I had not soon after discovered a pair
more seemly, if not more serviceable, which I took without further difficulty.
Behold my tender feet cased in crocodile skin, patent-leather tipped, low-quarter
boy's shoes, No. 2! “What a fall was there, my country,” from my pretty English
glove-kid, to sabots made of some animal closely connected with the
hippopotamus! A dernier ressort, vraiment! for my choice was that, or
cooling my feet on the burning pavement au naturel; I who have such a
terror of any one seeing my naked foot! And this is thanks to war and blockade!
Not a decent shoe in the whole community! N'importe! “Better days are
coming, we'll all” — have shoes — after a while — perhaps! Why did not Mark
Tapley leave me a song calculated to keep the spirits up, under depressing
circumstances? I need one very much, and have nothing more suggestive than the
old Methodist hymn, “Better days are coming, we'll all go right,” which I shout
so constantly, as our prospects darken, that it begins to sound stale.
SOURCE: Sarah Morgan Dawson, A Confederate Girl's
Diary, p. 36-7
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