No.----, RUTLAND STREET, BOSTON, _Nov._ 5, 1861.
This is the first pair of socks I ever knit; and I send them to you with my blessing upon the brave defenders of my country. I hope they will keep your feet warm, and thus keep your heart warm towards God and our blessed land.
Grandma says I am a silly girl, and I suppose I am; but if you feel half as much interest in me as I do in the person who will wear the first pair of socks I ever knit, you will wish to know how I look; therefore I send you my photograph.
I very much desire to know whether my work has done any good; whether my socks are ever worn in a battle; and most of all, I desire to know how the noble fellow looks that wears them. Therefore I beg you to answer my letter, and also to send me your photograph, if you can conveniently.
Now, my dear soldier, be brave and true, and, above all, do not run away from the rebels with my socks on your feet. You may retreat when your officers order you to retire; but if you are a coward, and find yourself compelled to run away, please pull them off before you do so, for I should die with mortification if I thought I had knit a pair of socks for a Union soldier to run away in.
Truly yours, for our flag and our country.
"Well, if that gal ain't a trump, then there ain't no snakes in Virginny!" exclaimed Hapgood. "She's got the true grit, and no mistake."
"That's so," replied the recipient of the gift, thoughtfully, as he bent down, and began to pull off the sock which encased his left foot.
"What are you doing?" demanded Hapgood, surprised at this new movement of his companion.
"I can't wear these socks yet, uncle," replied he.
Don't she say she wants them worn in a battle?"
"Tom, you are a little fool!" added the veteran, petulantly. "Are you going with cold feet just to please a silly gal, whose head is as full of moonshine as an egg is of meat. Put on the socks, and keep your feet warm. If you don't, I'll write to her, and tell what a fool you are."
Tom did put them on, but he could not help feeling that uncle Hapgood, as he was familiarly called in the camp, did not understand and appreciate his sentiments. The socks seemed to be too precious to be worn in the vulgar mud of Maryland. To him there was something ethereal about them, and it looked a little like profanation to put any thing emanating from the fairy fingers of the original of that photograph, and the author of that letter, upon his feet.