About seven miles from Ringgold, Georgia, lived an old couple, Mr. and Mrs. Russell, who, although ardently loving the cause, were too old and feeble to serve it otherwise than by their unceasing prayers, and by giving freely of their substance to sustain the patients at the hospitals then established at Ringgold.  Their daughter, “Miss Phemie,” a beautiful young girl, was never weary of conferring benefits upon the Southern soldiers; every day she rode in, never minding even heavy storms, and often riding upon a wagon because it would hold a larger supply of vegetables, etc.  Many a soldier was taken to the homestead to be cared for.  Those who could not go from under medical or surgical treatment were often treated to little rides.  Her devotion to the soldiers I can never forget.

Among the sick and wounded who were sent to the hospital at Newnan were many Georgians whose homes were within twenty-five or thirty miles.

After the fight at Missionary Ridge, two boys, brothers, were brought in.  One was threatened with pneumonia; the other, a lad of sixteen, had his right arm shattered from the shoulder down.  At his earnest request his mother was sent for; the necessary amputation being deferred awhile, because he begged so hard that the surgeon should await her arrival.  She had to ride all the way on a wagon drawn by a steer (oh, mothers, can you not imagine the agony which attended that lengthened journey?), and she was so long detained that I had to take her place at her boy’s side while the operation was performed.  The boy rapidly sunk,—­when his mother came was past speaking, and could only express with his dying eyes his great love for her.  Kneeling beside him, she watched intently, but without a tear or a sob, the dear life fast ebbing away.  The expression of that mother’s face no one who saw it can ever forget.

When all was over, I led her to my own room, where she asked to be left alone for a while.  At last, in answer to the sobbing appeals of her remaining son, she opened the door.  He threw himself into her arms, crying out, “Buddie’s gone, but you’re got me, ma, and I’ll never leave you again.  I’ll help you take Buddie home, and I’ll stay with you and help you work the farm.”

The mother gently and tenderly held him off a little way, looking with burning eyes into his face; her own was pale as death, but not a sob or tear yet.  Quietly she said, “No, my son, your place is not by me; I can get along as I have done; you are needed yonder (at the front); go and avenge your brother; he did his duty to the last; don’t disgrace him and me.  Come, son, don’t cry any more; you’re mother’s man, you know.”

That same night that mother started alone back to her home, bearing the coffined body of her youngest son, parting bravely from the elder, whose sorrow was overwhelming.  Just before leaving, she took me aside and said, “My boy is no coward, but he loved his Buddie, and is grieving for him; try to comfort him, won’t you?”