Tea Pot and Sugar Bowl

Stopped at a estate sale today and purchased (yet another) teapot and a sugar bowl. Trying to date it. Can't read the mark very well. It says CORONA  in a banner. 

Update...

F.Winkle pottery 1890 

Socks For Soldiers-pieces of woolen cloth

Staunton Spectator (Staunton VA) 1864 [LOC]

Socks For Soldiers

We feel called upon again to appeal in behalf of our suffering soldiers to the patriotism and kindness of the good people of this County to furnish material to make socks for our brave and bare-footed soldiers. We do not even ask for yarn, [though that, of course, is preferred] but only for pieces of woolen cloth large enough to make a covering for their feet. Every family could contribute such pieces as are now needed, and we feel that it is only necessary to state that they are wanted to ensure a sufficient supply in a short time. The ladies of this place are ready to make the pieces up into socks—the people of the country will please furnish the materials needed. A large portion of the gallant 25^th Regiment is now without socks and the brave soldiers of that Regiment are, in great part, from the North-western portion of the State without the possibility of receiving relief from their friends at home. Such soldiers have a peculiar claim to the kindness of our people. Search your houses and send such pieces as mentioned above to the Book-store of Mr. R. Cowan, of Staunton, and they will soon be covering the feet of our suffering soldiers.

Carpet ravelings

What Next.--We observe that the ladies of Mobile, in keeping with the fertility of resources and industry that has immortalized their sex during the war, and making socks from carpet ravelings. They are a little heterogeneous in color, but not a whit the less warm for that, and will be most acceptable to the soldiers or to those who need them at home.

[Same story appeared in the Edgefield Advertiser (Edgefield SC) Jaunuary 13, 1864, The Daily Dispatch, (Richmond, VA)January 4, 1864]

Poem: The Soldiers Mother 1861

The Smoky Hill and Republican Union

Junction, Davis Co., Kansas, Thursday, Dec. 26, 1861

The Soldiers Mother

By the low west window dreaming,

With the lingering sunlight gleaming

Softly on her saintly brow—

Of her boy to battle marching,

Heat and thirst the loved lips parching,

Dreams she in the twilight now.

Yet with rapid fingers knitting,

In the ancient arm-chair sitting,

Musing of her soldier son—

Pausing in her thoughts of sorrow,

Wond’ring if upon the morrow

She can have the blue socks done.

Thinking of the soldiers steading

As she saw them on the landing.

Thinking how they sternly drill them—

Back and forth the needles going

From the socks. God only knowing,

If or not his feet shall fill them.

But a sound her quick ear greeting

Starts her frightened heart to beating

With a troubled throb and surge,

For she hears the church-bell tolling,

And the solemn muffled rolling

Of slow music like a dirge.

Heeds she not the stitches falling,

As with eager accents calling

Some one passing by the door

All her wild forebodings masking,

And with lips unfalt’ring asking

Whom this mournful dirge is for?

But she strives her grief to smother,

‘Tis not meet a soldier’s mother

Thus should yield to sorrow vain.

Are there not a hundred others,

Stricken, desolated mothers,

Weeping for their brave one slain?

For their country still are bleeding

Soldiers brave who will be needing

Warm socks for their valiant feet—

Feet which ne’er before the traitors,

Like the feet of some bold praters,

Bent a cowardly retreat.

Other days have waned to twilight

Since the eve when such sad heart blight

Came down on that lonely one;

Yet beside the window sitting,

With her aged fingers knitting,

Dreams she still at set of sun.

On her brow a shadow resting,

And the sunset glory cresting

Like a crown the silver hair.

Back and forth the needles going,

Inch by inch the socks are growing,

And the tears her eyes o’erflowing

Are inwrought with silent prayer.

Could men see as see the angels,

These dumb socks, like sweet evangels,

Would a wond’rous tale unfold;

Every stitch would tell its story,

And each seam would wear a glory

Fairer that refiner’s gold.