Memorial of Margaret E.
Breckinridge
J.B. Lippincott, 1865
Knitting for the Soldiers.
Here I sit
at the same old work,
Knitting
and knitting from daylight till dark;
Thread
over and under and back and through,
Knitting
socks for—I don’t know who;-
But in fancy
I’ve seen him, and talked with him too.
He is no
hero of gentle birth;
He’s
little in rank, but he’s much in worth;
He’s plain
of speech and strong of limb;
He’s rich
in heart, but he’s poor of kin;
There are
none at home to work for him.
He set his
lips with a start and a frown,
When he
heard that the dear old flag was shot down
From the
walls of Fort Sumter, and flinging away
His tools
and his apron, stopped but to say
To his
comrades, “I’m going, whoever may stay,”
And was
‘listed and gone by the close of the day.
And
whether he watches to-night on the sea,
Or kindles
his camp-fire on “lone Tybee,”
By river
or mountain, wherever he be,
I know
he’s the noblest of all that are there;
The
promptest to do and the bravest to dare;
The
strongest in trust and the last in despair.
So here I
sit at the same old work,
Knitting
socks for the soldiers from daylight till dark,
And
whispering low, as the thread flies through,
To him who
shall wear them,--I don’t know who:-
“Ah,
soldier, fight bravely, be patient, be true,
For some
one is knitting and praying for you.”
Voices
of the morning 1865
By Belle Bush
A song For
the Army of Knitters.
Inscribed
to the Fifty-First Regiment, P. V.
Here’s a
pair of warm mittens for some one,-
A
stranger, it may be, to me:
Yet I call
him a friend and a brother,
Whatever
his title may be.
A colonel,
a captain, or private,
As equal
in honors I view;
For they
are the heroes of Freedom
Who prove
themselves valiant and true.
And I send
to them all the kind wishes
That spring
from pure sisterly trust,
And ask,
in return, that our banner
May never
be trailed in the dust,
But aloft,
with its starry adornings,
Unsullied
and bright, may it wave
O’er the
land that is sacred to Freedom,
Baptized
in the blood of the brave.
I’m knitting
more mittens for someone, -
The task
is a pleasure to me:
Yet I
cannot help thinking, while knitting,
Ah, who
will that someone be?
And I
fancy the one who receives them
Will shout
to his comrades, in glee,
“Ah,
someone had knit me nice mittens!
Oh, joy!
what a comfort they’ll be!”
And then,
as he hastily tries them,
Their
merits the better to see,
I fancy
he’ll silently query,
“Oh, who
can that some one be?”
Then over
the chords of his spirit
The
fingers of Fancy will stray,
Till the
pulses of music awaken
And throb
with a tenderer lay.
Ah, then
the dear image of some one,
In
brightness and beauty, will come
In dreams
to look smilingly on him
And sing
of the loved ones at home;
And the
heart of the soldier will listen
Entranced
to her joy-lighted themes,
Till
hushed is the moan of the river
That rolls
by his palace of dreams.
Then
bright o’er his pathway of peril
Will
glimmer Hope’s beautiful star,
And his
heart will grow braver and stronger
To follow
the fortunes of war.
Peterson’s Magazine
March 1865
Jenny
Musing
by Letta
C. Lord
Zephyrs
softly played around her,
Kissed her
lips, and brow so fair;
Sunbeams
bright came slowly creeping
O’er her
braids of nut-brown hair.
On a mossy
seat sitting,
Dainty
fingers slowly knitting
On a
soldier’s sock of blue
Stitch by
stitch the needle through.
By her
side a purling streamlet
Murmured
softly to the flowers;
And she
loved to sit beside it
In the
bright, sunshiny hours.
On the
mossy knoll sitting,
Sat the
maiden slowly knitting—
Knitting
on the sock of blue,
Stitch by
stitch the needle through.
Birds
around her sang their carols,
But she
heeded not their lay;
Heeded not
their notes of music,
For her
thoughts were far away.
Back and
forth her needles flitting,
Slowly
knitting, slowly knitting—
Knitting
on the sock of blue,
Stitch by
stitch the needle through.
What were
thrilling notes of music?
What the
rays of golden sun?
Could they
call her wanderer to her?
Could they
bring the absent one?
So the
maid was sadly sitting
On the
mossy knoll, knitting—
Knitting
on the sock of blue,
Stitch by
stitch the needle through.
But sweet
Hope was hovering near her,
And she
saw her tear-dimmed eye,
So she
softly whispered to her,
“You will
meet him by-and-by.”
So she
hopefully was sitting
On the
mossy knoll, knitting—
Knitting
on the sock of blue,
Stitch by
stitch the needle through.
Weaving
fancies bright as sunbeams
Of the
absent far away,
Sat the
maid amid the flowerets,
Looking
beautiful as they.
Back and
forth the needles flitting,
Thoughtfully
the maid was sitting,
Knitting
on the sock of blue,
Stitch by
stitch the needle through.
Thinking
of a little cottage,
Nestling
by the bonnie burn,
Dreaming
of a happy future
When her
soldier will return.
Thoughtfully
the maid was sitting,
Slowly
knitting, slowly knitting
On the
soldier’s sock of blue,
Stitch by
stitch the needle through.
The Tribute Book
By Frank Boott Goodrich 1865
The yarn ,
the heart, the hand, the love, the dreams and prayers referred to in the
following verses, all came from a border state:
“Fold them
up, they are warm and soft
As the
delicate knitter’s heart and hand,
A pair of
soft, blue woolen socks,
And love
knit in with every strand.
More than
this, there are dreams and prayers
Wove in
like a mystic, golden thread—
Dreams
that may stir a soldier’s heart,
And
prayers to bless a dying head.
It is not
vain, it is not vain,
For love
is blest, and prayer is strong,
To move
the Arm that surely guides
The
breasts that stem the tide of wrong.
And those
who, praying, still believe,
Shall know
the strength of human will;
They dream
prophetic histories,
And
through their faith their hopes fulfill.”
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