“And,” added father, “if he had paid for all the meals he got in Confederate money, the amount would have been far more than ten dollars.”

I know other boys and girls will think this a queer story, but I hope they will like it as well as mother and Loo and I did.

CHAPTER VII.

BUNNY.

One bright morning I sat in the matron’s room of the “Buckner Hospital,” then located at Newnan, Georgia.  Shall I describe to you this room—­or my suite of rooms?  Indeed, I fear you will be disappointed, dear young readers, for perhaps the word “hospital” conveys to your mind the idea of a handsome and lofty building containing every convenience for nursing the sick, and for the comfort of attendants.  Alas! during the war hospital arrangements were of the roughest.  Frequent changes of location were imperative, transportation was difficult.  So it became a “military necessity” to seize upon such buildings as were suitable in the towns where it was intended to establish a “post.”  Courthouses, halls, stores, hotels, even churches had to be used,—­the pews being removed and replaced by the rough hospital beds.

The “Buckner Hospital” was expected to accommodate nearly one thousand sick and wounded, and embraced every building for two solid squares.  Near the centre a small store had been appropriated to the matron’s use during the day.  Here all business relating to the comfort of the sick and wounded was transacted.  The store as it stood, shelves, counters, and all, became the “linen-room,” and was piled from floor to ceiling with bedding and clean clothing.  The back “shed-room” was the matron’s own.  A rough table, planed on the top, stood in the centre.  With the exception of one large rocking-chair, kindly donated by a lady of Ringgold, Georgia, boxes served for chairs.  A couch made of boxes and piled with comforts and pillows stood in one corner.  This served not only as an occasional resting-place for the matron, but, with the arm-chair, was frequently occupied by soldiers who, in the early stages of convalescence, having made a pilgrimage to my room, were too weak to return at once, and so rested awhile.

Here I sat on the morning in question looking over some “diet lists,” when I heard a slight noise at the door.  Soon a little girl edged her way into the room.

Her dress was plain and faded, but when she pushed back the calico sun-bonnet a sweet, bright face appeared.  She came forward as shyly as a little bird and stood at my side.  As I put out my hand to draw her closer, she cried, “Don’t, you’ll scare him!”

And then I perceived that she held close to her breast, wrapped in her check apron, something that moved and trembled.  Carefully the little girl removed a corner of the apron, disclosing the gray head and frightened eyes of a squirrel.  Said she, “It’s Bunny; he’s mine; I raised him, and I want to give him to the sick soldiers! Daddy’s a soldier!” And as she stated this last fact the sweet face took on a look of pride.