Friday, June 27.—­As soon as the cook was up again, we resumed preparations.  We put all the clothing in order and had it nicely done up with the last of the soap and starch.  “I wonder,” said Annie, “when I shall ever have nicely starched clothes after these?  They had no starch in Natchez or Vicksburg when I was there.”  We are now furbishing up dresses suitable for such rough summer travel.  While we sat at work yesterday the quiet of the clear, calm noon was broken by a low, continuous roar like distant thunder.  To-day we are told it was probably cannon at Vicksburg.  This is a great distance, I think, to have heard it—­over a hundred miles.

H. and Max have bought a large yawl and are busy on the lake bank repairing it and fitting it with lockers.  Aunt Judy’s master has been notified when to send for her; a home for the cat Jeff has been engaged; Price is dead, and Sancho sold.  Nearly all the furniture is disposed of, except things valued from association, which will be packed in H.’s office and left with some one likely to stay through the war.  It is hardest to leave the books.

Tuesday, July 8, 1862.—­We start to-morrow.  Packing the trunks was a problem.  Annie and I are allowed one large trunk apiece, the gentlemen a smaller one each, and we a light carpet-sack apiece for toilet articles.  I arrived with six trunks and leave with one!  We went over everything carefully twice, rejecting, trying to shake off the bonds of custom and get down to primitive needs.  At last we made a judicious selection.  Everything old or worn was left; everything merely ornamental, except good lace, which was light.  Gossamer evening dresses were all left.  I calculated on taking two or three books that would bear the most reading if we were again shut up where none could be had, and so, of course, took Shakspere first.  Here I was interrupted to go and pay a farewell visit, and when we returned Max had packed and nailed the cases of books to be left.  Chance thus limited my choice to those that happened to be in my room—­“Paradise Lost,” the “Arabian Nights,” a volume of Macaulay’s History that I was reading, and my prayer-book.  To-day the provisions for the trip were cooked:  the last of the flour was made into large loaves of bread; a ham and several dozen eggs were boiled; the few chickens that have survived the overflow were fried; the last of the coffee was parched and ground; and the modicum of the tea was well corked up.  Our friends across the lake added a jar of butter and two of preserves.  H. rode off to X. after dinner to conclude some business there, and I sat down before a table to tie bundles of things to be left.  The sunset glowed and faded and the quiet evening came on calm and starry.  I sat by the window till evening deepened into night, and as the moon rose I still looked a reluctant farewell to the lovely lake and the grand woods, till the sound of H.’s horse at the gate broke the spell.